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The Cottage in the Wood 






A BIT O’ SILENCE 

BY 

HELEN HILL McWILLIAMS 


Illustrated from Photographs 
By 

FREDERICK S. FRANKLIN 


BUFFALO 

THE McDOWELL PRESS 
MCMXII 




Copyright 1912 
By 

HELEN HILL McWILLIAMS 


Published April, 1912 



h 


4 /-sT> 

CC(.A3.[4086 


■ 


To Virginia, Billy and Betsey Jane, 

To Anne, Roberta and Esther Lane, 

To Patty, Shirley and Gilbertine, 

To Sylvia, Rosamond, Sally and Jean, 

To Kate and Rachel and Copper, dear. 

And all the animals that appear — 

To Elizabeth, Frances, so on and so forth. 
Likewise our friends in the frozen North — 

(Pm certainly having an awful time 

Trying to squeeze all of you into this rhyme ) — 

To Nancy, to Philip and to Roxane, 

To Garry, Dickie and each dear man 
Who^s a part of the tale that I here relate. 

This book I lovingly dedicate. 


H. H. McW. 


*^When the song^s gone out o^ your 
life, you can^t start another while its 
a ringin^ in your ears, ^tis best to 
have a bit o' silence, and out o' that, 
maybe, a psalm will come bye and 


R Bit 0’ Silence 



Buffalo, March 30, 191 . 

Virginia, Darling,: 

Of course they won’t let you read this yourself but Billy 
can read it to you and I must write now — this very minute, 
my heart is so full. To think that you are a mother and 
have a weeny baby of your own! And I am an aunt! Of 
course I’ve been a mother for many moons myself but I’ve 
never been an aunt before and it has gone to my head I gUess. 
I simply can’t express my feelings in words at all so I 
won’t try — I just want to tell you that I love you more this 
minute than I ever did before and that I am thinking of you 
with a heart full of love and devotion and thankfulness. O, 
Virginia, dear, do enjoy every minute of your lamb while she 
is tiny for she’ll grow so big in such a little while and you 
can’t ever make her be a baby again you know. I never 
could understand people wanting their babies to hurry and 
grow up for there is nothing in their later life to quite equal 
their helpless, soft, rose-bud baby-hood, so make the most of 
it and enjoy it wlhile you may. 

I was sitting on a pile of rugs about half an^ hour ago, 
trying to decide what to do next when I saw the messen- 
ger boy dash up the steps with the telegram and my heart 
almost sitopped beating until I knew that all was well. 
Precious little Betsey Jane — hug and kiss her for me and for 
Garry and the children and congratulate Billy for us all. 

There’s the telephone — it was Garry, and he said to tell 
Billy he gives him the glad mitt and may all his troubles 
be little ones. Garry is such an idiot and coudn’t under- 
stand why I was weeping into the receiver. Aren’t men 
queer? They’ll never know, will they, dear? 

Well, we are all packed and ready to start on our pil- 
grimmage and we have to arise and shine at the unholy 
hour of five tomorrow morning in order to get out there 
in any kind of time. Now that we are really going, I wonder 


[ 5 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


why we are going, but something seemed to tell me that it 
was the thing to do — ^to leave the city where we were both 
born and have always lived and where our children were 
born, and migrate to the country; it was the “call of the 
wild,’ I guess, and Fve always had it to a great extent — Fm 
so tired of paved streets and little back yards and trolley 
cars clanging and I want the green fields and country roads 
and wild flowers and woods and birds and a little garden to 
putter around in and Fm going to have them, too. Yes, 
we’ve “gone and done it’’ and tomorrow we join the great 
army of commuters and begin a new kind of life. Garry 
simply howls and says that anyone would think we were 
going into the Great Silence instead of a nearby town, and 
he’s right, for we will be only an hour from the city and 
can get to our old friends and they to us very easily. And, 
really, since you married and went way down east and 
Mother and Dad have elected to stay in the frozen North, 
Buffalo does not seem the same and when all is said and 
done, I have very few regrets and am looking forward to 
a most interesting and happy time in our new home. The 
Brinkerhoffs and the Buells are the only people we know in 
Stormfield but we’ll make new friends, of course, and too, 
the Vales are coming. I must now go and telephone all the 
girls that Betsey Jane has come to town so will bring this 
disjointed epistle to a close — it will be my last letter from 
here. God bless you and the baby, Virginia, dear, and may 
your little daughter be a joy and a blessing to you always — 
how I would love to see her this minute! The children 
want to leave for Boston toniglht. I cannot help wondering 
w'hat the next few years have in store for us. 

Stormfield, April 4. 

Having so much to do that I don’t know where to begin, 
I have decided to let everything go for the time being and 
reel off a few lines to the Bostonians. Bill will have to 
read my letters to you for a while, of course, so I’ll care- 
fully refrain from exposing any family skeletons or letting 
any of the various cats out of the bag in regard to your 
dyed hair, false teeth or glass eye, and so forth. 

We arrived safely but in a blinding snow storm, coming 
on the noon train. The loads didn’t get here until three 
but the vans were covered so all was well. I found the 
women I had engaged cleaning iiKadly and the house warm 


[ 6 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


and fresh but very homely, as I told you it was. My dear, 
sueh hideous wall paper I have never seen, but Mr. Dieffen- 
bach, our millioniaire landlord, is going to have some paper- 
ing done immediately; he’s positively rolling in wealth, 
lights his cigars with ten dollar bills and all that sort of thing. 
I confess I felt a few qualms of home-sickness as I gazed 
around the neighhonhood — it looks so cold and barren — 
nothing in the line of foliage being out yet of course. I’ll 
be mighty glad when the Vales get here — you know that 
Amy and Ned have taken the house next door and will be 
out in about two weeks. I prepared a large and copious 
meal for the moving men and sent them on their homeward 
way rejoicing. Garry started in imimediately and put rugs 
down and placed some of the furniture around (in various 
attitudes of stiffness as men always do) and I lighted our 
big brass student lamp as soon as it grew dark and in a short 
time we looked most homelike. Then Sally Brinkerhoff ran 
in to ask me to lunch with her the next day and to say that 
she would adore taking Nancy and Phil for all day so that 
I could get settled more easily and quickly. I considered 
it most thoughtful of her and accepted with alacrity. She 
is not quite so pretty as she was in her high-school days but 
is very sweet-looking and has wonderful eyes and no other 
feature counts much anyway. I haven’t met any of the 
natives yet but there seems to be an abundance of the 
same. Garry has started to commute and thinks he will 
enjoy it greatly. We have a fine deep lot (280 feet, I be- 
lieve), a huge veranda and big front lawn; the house is ab- 
solutely hopeless on the outside but I can see a few possi- 
bilities on the inside. Garry says that I must be gifted with 
second sight but I really think I can do something with it. 
However, our house and the Vales’ were the only vacant 
abodes in Stormfield so it was Hobson’s choice. 

The bedrooms are large and there’s a fine attic and dandy 
laundry and furnace and natural gas and all those prosaic 
things that make life worth living and when one thiniks of 
the ridiculously low rent we are paying, we can’t complain. 
I think I’ll name our mansion “Homely Hut” and have my 
stationery engraved accordingly. It started to snow this 
afternoon and I heard Phil asking Nancy if she knew what 
snow was made of and she replied, “Why, it isn’t made of 
anything, Bruddie, it’s the rain all popped out.” Pretty cun- 
ning of her, I thought. You can’t feaze Nancy you know. 


[ 7 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


she has an answer for everything. I predict a brilliant future 
for my child. 

O, dear, I do wish it would stop snowing — ^here it is 
April and the crocuses are already beginning to put their 
little heads up out of the ground, and still it snows. 

April 12. 

A wonderful day! Clear and sharp with a little twinge 
in the air and yet every now and then a soft, balmy breath 
of wind that seems to Whisper “Summer is coming — ^sum- 
mer is coming — soon.” Summer with it’s bright, sunny 
days — it’s strawberries and linen dresses — and no hats and 
bathing suits and moon-light strolls and a thousand other 
wonderful things — O — ^bow I adore it! 

Billy’s letter with the snap-shot of the weeny one, taken 
in the nurse’s arms, just came; the pet lamb that she is! 
For a four-day-old baby, your child is most handsome and 
intelligent-looking only I wish she hadn’t elected to keep 
her left eye shut. Billy tells me that she has red hair and 
I’m fairly consumed with jealousy; I have always wanted a 
red-haired child you know and mine are perfect tow- 
heads, like Garry used to be; they’re exactly like him in 
every way for that matter and I might as well be their gov- 
erness for all the resemblance they bear to me. However 
I ought to be thankful for small favors, I suppose. The 
children have made countless friends already — Nancy’s 
boon companion being Jessamine Jones — an only daughter 
and a very spoiled one — and Phil’s idea of masculine per- 
fection being one Homer Leaks (pretty name, methinks), 
who is a devil of the first water. I can see it in his eye. 
T. R. would present this town with a gold medal I am sure 
did he know how prolific it is — no race suicide here; there 
are children to right of us — ^children to left of us — children 
in front of us — almost six hundred. 

I have had one caller and I fell in love with her at once. 
She is Mrs. Ric'hard Tennanit — ^who was Anne Remington 
before sihe was married and is well known in literary cir- 
cles in the city. Of course, I had often heard of her and 
so have you; you know she writes for the Record in town 
and has lots of things published and is exceedingly clever 
and most unconventional. She didn’t call in the ordinary 
way at all, thanks be, but came to the back door witji a 
large bunch of rhubarib out of her garden and said she 


[ 8 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


hoped we liked the stuff and that there was lots more where 
that came from and she would be over again soon and to 
call upon her for anything we needed or wanted to know 
and to come over any old time and make ourselves very 
much at home. She is delightful and has a most expres- 
sive face and big soulful eyes and wavy Chestnut hair which 
was twisted up under a delapidated old felt hat. The rest 
of her costume consisted of a torn and spotted skirt, a man’s 
blue flannel shirt, turned in at the neck, and the holiest 
shoes I ever saw. I know I’ll adore her. She lives just 
around the corner and there’s a path connedting our back- 
yards. I’m dying to see her house for I know it will be as 
attractive as she is. Ned Vale was out for a short time 
today and is wild to get out here to stay. He expects to 
come out next week with the furniture and Amy will come 
soon after. We aren’t any more settled as yet down stairs 
because the new paper is to be put on Thursday so what’s 
the use of putting up pictures and curtains and dragging 
them all down again. The children are sleeping peacefully 
and all is quiet on the Potomac. 

I went down to the Post Office today (it does seem so 
funny to have to go for one’s mail) and walked home be- 
hind Virginia Tennant — the eldest of the four Tennant off- 
spring. She is a most artistic-looking girl but impresses me 
as being terribly dignified and cold and I wonder if I’ll ever 
know her well — T hae me doots’ — though most girls adore 
me and confide in me and tell me all their troubles, but then, 
everybody does that. Nancy said today that she wished she 
had the “kind of looking mother” that Jessamine Jones had 
as I looked so much like a young girl she hated to tell people 
that I was her mother! Verily, out of the mouths of babes, 
and so forth. Would that you might see Mrs. Jones! 

April 20. 

There have been movings since the world began — since 
the historic command to “take up thy bed and walk,” and 
there will be movings until the final signal to pass on tO 
the Great Unknown, but of all the movings, journeyings or 
migrations ever recorded, the Vales’ entrance into this burg 
last night has them all “skinned to a finisih.” I can pic- 
ture you now lifting your hands in holy horror at my terri- 
ble expressions but dear, while I know that slang is my be- 
setting sin, it is so pat and fits in so beautifully at times 


[ 9 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


that I can’t refrain from using it, and why be stilted when 
writing to you — you wouldn’t like my letters if I were, now 
would you, dear? Talk about the landing of the Pilgrims 
— it wasn’t a circumstance to this performance — it was 
unique to say the least. I won’t attempt to do it justice 
but will chronicle it as it really occurred. Ned came in to 
supper with Garry, having come on the six o’clock train. 
I greeted him with much surprise as I had been watching 
for their furniture all day and couldn’t understand why 
Ned was here if the loads weren’t coming. He informed 
me that they were on the way — likewise Mrs. Droudt, the 
old German woman who has worked for Amy’s mother for 
years — and that all were due at any time and would I ask 
him to dinner. I assured (him that I would like nothing 
better than to share with him our frugal meal and all went 
merry as a marriage-bell. 

Mrs. Droudt appeared about nine having wandered aim- 
lessly about for hours trying to find the house; it seems that 
Ned’s directions were about as clear as the Mississippi River 
on a windy day, but she was here, anyway, and we spent the 
evening in ‘conversatione’ — I vainly trying to understand 
her broken English. She looked incredulous when I happen- 
ed to mention that we took three quarts of milk a day and 
asked if the children still drank it. I replied that they cer- 
tainly did to a great extent and she said that they would 
not grow strong unless they ate everything and informed 
me that her daughter’s child — aged eight months — was en- 
tirely unrestricted as regards menu; “Fy,” she said, her voice 
swelling with pride, “our Schoony, he eedz sauerkraut like 
a great beeg man und helpz heemself to peakles ven he first 
sits down.” I left the room hastily, ostensibly to see to 
something in the kitchen and had hysterics when I got there. 
Nancy and Phil are perfect Samsons but I shall certainly 
add sauerkraut and pickles to their diet list immediately. 

At ten no vans had arrived — nor at eleven either, so when 
midnight struck, I meekly suggested bed. Ned was absolutely 
disgusted at the turn affairs had taken and after peering out 
of the window and finding it as dark as Egypt, and no 
sound disturbing the stillness of the neighborhood, ac- 
quiesced. 

About two, I was awakened by shouts and noises that 
would wake the dead and upon investigation, I discovered 
two loaded moving-vans in front of the Vales’ house and 


[ 10 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


several men on the veranda ringing their doornbell for all 
they were worth. I awakened Garry and by dint of much 
pounding we aroused Ned from the leithargy into which he 
had fallen and the two dressed and went out, cursing and 
blaspheming under their breath, the w*bile. I got giggling, 
of course, and that made them madder. Poor old Mrs. 
Droudt slept peacefully on and I lay laughing in my four- 
poster until it fairly shook — while Ned, Garry and three 
very intoxicated men hauled and dragged furniture, boxes 
and barrels from the wagons into the house Trom two-thirfty 
A. M. until break of dawn. There was no moon and they 
had a beautiful time. The piano is a sight and most of the 
furniture scratched and marred; the men had apparently 
stopped at every road-house on the way from the city, 
supremely indifferent as to what time of day or night they 
arrived at their destination. Ned will have a fine repair 
bill to pay. I’m afraid. Garry had to go in this morning, of 
course, so Ned, Mrs. Droudt and I spent most of the day 
unpacking and the way things were done up was a caution. 
It seems that Amy, not feeling well, had left most of it to 
Mrs. Droudt who did her best and, of course, Angels can 
do no more. We found priceless old china and rare pot- 
tery rattling loosely in large boxes while Ned’s shoe-trees 
carefully wrapped in tissue-paper, reposed in a basket, sur- 
rounded by an eider-down comforter. There were many in- 
stances of like nature but, as luck would have it, very few 
things were broken. I have just come from there and at 
the present writing, Ned is still in the bath-room where he 
has been for hours, putting up a shower-bath and elaborate 
nickle arrangements wlhile Mrs. Droudt is shouting vainly 
for him to come and remove the wash-boiler from the man- 
fle-piece and the wringer from the piano, her strength hav- 
ing deserted her long since. However, ‘all’s well that ends 
weir and they’re really here. Ned’s mother and Garry’s 
mother are cousins you know and so we feel quite close to 
each other. 

Some female imposters appear to be coming in so I must 
run down and greet them politely. 

April 29. 

Sunday was a lovely day and we all walked to Rush- 
ton Pond, a beautiful spot not far from here but rather 
difficult to get to. The walk along the old Indian trail was 
delightful and coming home through the woods we met 


[ 11 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


such an attractive-looking woman, walking slowly along 
with a big Irish setter. She heard Nancy calling Phil as 
we pasised her, and she looked at him as though she would 
like to hug him and her eyes filled with tears. She made 
a distinct impression on me and I must find out who she 
is and where she lives. Something in me responded im- 
mediately to that queer look in her eyes and I’ve thought 
about her ever since. I couldn’t tell you a thing she had 
on except some sort of sweater — I don’t even know the 
color. When she was nearly out of sight I heard her call- 
ing her dog and such a voice — deep and rich, very much 
like Mother Van’s; and, by the way, my adorable mother-in- 
law has announced her engagement to Mr. Horton and the 
wedding is to be in June. We are all so glad for certainly 
if anyone ever deserved happiness she does and I hope she 
gets more than her share. Garry says it makes him feel 
wierd to see his mother “sporting” an engagement ring but 
is very proud of his beautiful parent, nevertheless. 

Sally asked me to walk over to her dressmaker’s with 
her last evening and I consented and thereby hangs a tale! 
Would 'that one had, too — sky-high! We started bravely 
forth but felt rather weary as we approached our destina- 
tion for it was way across the town and the night was 
densely black and as our lagging foot-steps propelled us a 
little nearer to the place where the house ought to be, var- 
ious strange and wierd noises penetrated the atmosphere 
and with an ominous sound of fierce growls and the rattle 
of clanking chains the largest dog that ever lived (or so 
we thought) made for us at break-neck speed. We shrieked 
— we howled — we ran and fell pell-mell into some furrows 
in a nearby field — dog meanwhile coming nearer every 
second. We were nearly suffocated with fear thinking that 
of course the animal had become unfastened but after what 
seemed hours of dread suspense the creature clanked back 
to his original post and it developed that the chain was about 
a quarter of a mile in length. Sally says that if her dress 
remains where it is until moth and rust corrupt it, she’ll 
never go near the place again and I fervently echo her 
statement, adding that I’ll never go out again at night, un- 
protected, in this spooky town as long as I live here. 

Our papering is done and I have finished putting things 
in place and the effect is most pleasing to the eye. I’m 
rather tired of green but couldn’t give it up, so have a soft 


[ 12 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


woodsy two-toned green for the living-room and hall and 
a love of a blue dining-room. I selected a little Englis-h 
brocade that is so pretty, and that cost much more than Mr. 
D. intended to pay; Garry says he certainly needs a guard- 
ian, he’s so easy. I have my beautiful craftsman book- 
case along the west wall in the living-room and nothing on 
it but my Winged Victory (the Carrara marble looks so love- 
ly against the dark back-ground) and a low flat bowl of 
Greube pottery, an object that I have acquired since you 
last visited me. I couldn’t afford it, I know, but I saw it 
in a Crafts Shop and fell before it’s irresistable charm. I’m 
very sensitive to surroundings, you know, and simply must 
have things about me that appeal to me and am willing to 
sacrifice in other ways to have it so. It’s incomprehensible 
to me how people who don’t have to, can go tlirough life 
without one beautiful thing about them; they have only 
the barest necessities and then do the miser act with the 
surplus. How much fuller would their lives be did they 
profit by Mahomet’s counsel — “If a man find himself with 
bread in both hands, he should exchange one loaf for some 
flowers of the Narcissus, since the loaf feeds the body in- 
deed, but the flowers feed the soul.” 

Anne Tennant (she has asked me to call her ‘Anne,’ as 
sihe has a perfect horror of last names with Mrs. prefixed) 
ran over Sunday and asked Amy and me to come to a little 
tea at her house yesterday. “Bring your knitting, girls,” 
she said, “and come early to avoid the rush — every one is 
dying to meet you both and they’ll all be there with their 
children and their sisters and their cousins and their aunts 
in honor of the occasion.” We went and enjoyed every 
minute of it — ^the house has so mudh individuality and 
charm, Anne is a most gracious hostess, and we met slews of 
fasciniating people who say they are coming to call inform- 
ally and who made us feel so much at home. A Mrs. Wat- 
son — a charming widow — ^is unusually bright and clever and 
very lovely to look upon. She lives in Buttercup Cottage, a 
darling house on the corner of our street. She introduced 
a tall, dark daughter named Gilbertine, nice looking and 
with beautiful hands, who is home from some domestic 
science school for Easter. Everybody calls everybody else 
by their first name and they all seem like one big family. 
Anne served delicious tea and little buns and cakes and we 
all sat around everywhere while the fire threw out big cheery 


[ 13 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


sparks and the air was filled with incense which was wafted 
from an old incense-burner which stood on a table in the 
library — it is a quaint, artistic thing and was looted from an 
Egyptian temple centuries ago. The dining room is most at- 
tractive — deep French windows forming the whole back of it 
and making a perfect setting for the wonderful Concord 
Hills which loom up in the distance — la mass of deepest 
purple. There are Windsor chairs and an octogon table 
which is not in the center of the room. A Mrs. Bob Thorn- 
ton impressed me most favorably. I had always wondered 
just what was meant by people being described as “breezy,” 
but Rosamond Thornton fits the appellation to a T— -Tresh 
and bright and vivacious — ^yes, breezy is the word. She 
came in flushed and rather late and sank exhausted on to 
the window-seat. 

“Anine, dear,” she panted, “Fm so sorry not to have 
come earlier but your Remington came in a while ago and 
informed me that the men who are paving James Avenue 
were mad at Sally Anne, so I dashed to the scene of action 
and found my daughter stuck securely in a mixture of con- 
crete and tar. I will leave the rest to your vivid imagina- 
tion.” 

“Sally Anne is just three,” she explained to Amy and 
me, “and is of a very inquisitive turn of mind.” 

I took an instant liking to a Mrs. Lane, whom they call 
Roberta, who lives at Fenway Farm, a beautiful Craftsman 
house back in the woods and a quarter of a mile in from 
the road; a most perfect example of it’s kind, they say. Mrs. 
Lane is the mother of three youngsters and everyone else 
out here seems to be the mother of many, and all seem so 
proud of it — I never saw anything like it. 

“I keep urging all my famly to eat much food,” said 
the sprightly Mrs. Watson, “for then I won’t have to feed 
them when we get home. And this is such decent food, 
too, Anne; what kind neighbor furnished this outlay?” she 
added. 

“Hush, Kate, keep it dark,” said Anne, ‘don’t give away 
all our schemes to these lovely new people from town — I 
am ashamed of your perfidy.” 

“It tastes like more, anyway,” continued Kate, — “Gil- 
bertine, you and Felice eat lots and fortify yourselves, for 
an empty larder awaits you.” 


[ 14 ] 


Sally Anne is Just Three ''—Fuge 14 



A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“How many children have you, Mrs. Watson?” I asked, 
politely. 

“Only three that I can claim as mine,” she answered, 
“but I’m the mother of nations, you know; Jean lives with 
me and I always have a houseful. And my name is Kate,” 
she added, “and please don’t ever call me anything else, for 
of course I shall call you Nancy and I couldn’t ever call that 
good-looking husband of yours anything but Garry — ^that’s 
his name, isn’t it? I thought so, well, I want you and Garry 
to dine with us tomorrow night — now be sure.” 

And that’s the way it goes' — they’re all perfectly dear to 
us all the time. I must slop now and go and dig out my 
hut — it looks as though it had been struck by lightning. 
I am glad that all is so well and that my adorable red-chaired 
niece is thriving. 


May 14. 

Your letter came yesterday and it is so lovely to hear 
from you again for with all due respect to my Iamb of a 
brother-in-law, bis letters are so unsatisfactory. 

And so you like the Titian beauty and are not going to 
give her away — how strange! You’re not in the same class 
with Kathleen Lawton’s laundress, who, when informed that 
her mistress had twin boys, remarked hopefully, “Oh, well, 
perhaps one of them will die.” Poor thing, I presume she 
belonged to the large mass of humanity who cannot under- 
stand anyone’s really wanting a baby, to say nothing of two. 
And do you remember how Gertrude’s old uncle from Kan- 
sas City gazed thoughtfully at her puny twin and her fat 
twin and inquired anxiiously, “Are they going to keep the 
little one?” I know that your daughter is the most beauti- 
ful baby ever born, save two, and I say unhesitatingly that 
she is, without a doubt, the most beautiful red-haired baby 
that ever did come into the world; do have her picture taken 
soon. Mother has always lectured me unmercifully for 
squandering so much money on pbotograi^hs of Nancy and 
Phil but, my dear, I wouldn’t take a thousand dollars for 
any of their pictures if I knew that I couldn’t get any more. 
They were such beautiful babies and those exquisite Lon- 
don heads and cunning groups will help them over many 
a homely year of long-leggedness, toothlessness and general 
akwardness that all the poor little kiddies have to go through 
with. 


[ 15 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


While I think of it I must tell you about the beauty who 
was at Anne’s the other day. Jean Carson — a teacher of 
Chemistry at the High School here and who lives at Kate 
Watson’s. She is as near perfection as any human being 
I ever saw and just the style you love; tall, fair-haired, blue- 
eyed, and with exquisitely molded features and a figure that 
w^ould make Venus blush for shame. A veritable daughter 
of the gods and as bright and clever as she is beautiful, and 
a great favorite. I have always maintained that there are 
t^vo sides to everything and that everyone has a right to his 
own opinion on any subject but this is the exception that 
makes the rule for there could positively be no two opinions 
about Jean — she’s physical perfection personified. When 
the townspeople heard of the handsome Chemistry teacher 
who had been engaged, an old fogie tottered up to Dick 
Tennant, Anne’s husband, and inquired, “But does she know 
anything?” “She doesn’t have to,” promptly resiponded 
Dick, who had already seen her. 

I find we’re in a perfect nest of Christian Scientists, New 
Thoughtists and students of Metaphysics and I’m glad of 
it, for I am so interested in all those subjects and am so 
anxious to have some real insight into them. I’ve been 
groping blindly in the dark ever since I first began to look 
into it and 1 know no more now than when I first started, 
and really less, I believe. I shall keep my eyes and ears 
open and try to absorb all I possibly can, for these people 
practice their religion — not merely preach it. 

The Concord Hills are a wonderful sight today; deepest 
purple with pale green lights every now and then appearing 
in little glints through the darker shades — they look near 
enough to touch but are many miles away, I believe. Isn’t 
it queer that we never came out here before when we have 
lived so near it always. Garry and I did come out once a 
few years ago to that party of the Buells but we went back 
early the next morning and the town looked anything but 
attractive to my sleepy eyes. You said you remembered driv- 
ing out here once or twice with Dad when we were little 
but I have no recollection of it. 

Dr. and Mrs. Lane, who live on James Avenue at the 
corner of our tiny street are very interesting; the doctor is a 
quiet but brilliant man and a brother of the Fenway Farm 
Lane, and Esther appealed to me the minute I saw her. She 
has a dry humor that is killing and she’s the kind that wears 


[ 16 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


well, I know. They have one small daughter, Constance, 
not quite four, who greatly desires a more Rooseveltian 
family, and she said such a cunning thing when I was there 
the other day. She was looking out of the window when the 
little Adams twins passed with their nurse and turning to 
her mother she said, in a most plaintive tone, “Mother, — 
Mary and Alice is two little girls; I wish I was two little girls.” 

May 24. 

Such an interesting experience as we bad yesterday! I 
am sure there is a tragedy of some sort connected with it. 

Natalie Barton and Elise came out from town on the 
noon train to spend the night and to size up my aibode in 
the wilderness; and as both are going away for the sum- 
mer, Elise to Cape Cod and Natalie to the Berkshires, they 
insisted upon a walk in the enticing looking woods so 
with Nancy and baby Phil in tow we started bravely forth. 
The first part of the walk was awful for the girls wanted to 
cut across ploughed fields and go down by the old mill and 
cross the bridge, Natalie saying that it would be more ro- 
mantic than going by the road. Well, romantic was the 
word, and then some, for the ruts were awful and dragging 
two small children up hill and down dale is no joke, believe 
me. You will find out for yourself when the beloved Betsey 
Jane arrives at the dragging age. After we had tramped 
for about three quarters of a mile on the other side of the 
creek we came to a thick clump of trees in the center of 
which was a small hut or shack with the cunnihgest baby 
pond to the west of it and a weeny latticed veranda in front. 
Over the door was nailed a board on which was carved in 
quaint Egyptian characters — “Eat of the Lotus, all ye who 
enter here.” The sight of a house was enough for Phil who 
insisted upon having a drink of water as he does every five 
minutes of his existence. He’s a close second to Rosamond 
Thornton who consumes more glasses of water a day than 
any human creature I ever heard of. 

We could hear someone singing and playing an accom- 
paniment inside so I decided to humor my child and was 
about to go up to the door and knock when it was opened 
as if by magic and a middle-aged woman appeared and threw 
out some crumbs to the birds. Phil grasped the opportunity 
and requested a “dink of wattey.” Middle-aged woman went 
into house and reappeared in a minute with a glass of water 


[ 17 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


which she presented to child who gulped it down madly and 
thanked her prettily. I meanwhile made use of the chance 
to observe that woman at piano was the same one we had 
met in the woods Easter Sunday, and that she was singing, 
‘Tf I Had a Thousand Lives to Live,” in a glorious contralto 
voice. She didn’t look around, however, or even stop sing- 
ing, so I didn’t gain much by my rude staring after all. We 
girls are awfully excited about her and talked of nothing 
else all the way home. We are conjecturing wildly as to what 
it all means and even the staid Garret has evinced a tiny bit 
of interest in the subject. If he lives with me long enough 
he’ll gradually acquire quite a number of human characteris- 
tics, I really believe. That woman draws me to her as if by an 
invisible cord and I am going up there to call before long 
and try my luck — she may shut the door in my face but Til 
risk it. I wouldn’t intrude into anyone’s privacy for the 
world but I have “one of my premonitions” that she needs a 
few kindred souls about her and no matter what she is 
doing up there it won’t hurt her to have a friend or two. 
The girls went back on the noon train today and I have 
promised to keep them posted as regards the lady of the 
forest. While they were here Elise, as usual, talked mostly 
of clothes but I would too if I had such stunning things as 
she has; she’s positively the most stylish creature I ever 
looked upon and is always fashionable, too, and there is 
quite a difference between the two, if you’ll think about it. 
I want Nancy to be pretty, of course, when she grows up, 
though even if she isn’t but has lots of charm and style. I’ll 
be satisfied. 

P. S. No, I didn’t mind the little lecture in your letter 
and I truly will try to use less slang and to be “more care- 
ful in my choice of words,” but I’ll make no promises. 

June 3. 

Every single day I thank my lucky stars that I’m here 
and I wonder whatever put the idea of coming into my 
head. But how silly to waste thought on the subject; we 
were meant to come, of course, and it is all part of the pro- 
gram. For one who professes to be a fatalist, I waste a 
great deal of precious time wondering why certain things 
happen, when they were meant to happen without a doubt. 
I know I exaggerate frequently and that my hyperbole ef- 
fects are terrible at times, but that is due to my impulsive 


[ 18 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


and enthusiastic nature, and you know Aunt Judith says 
that I appeal to her so strongly simply because I am ardent. 
You are now wondering what all this has to do with the 
price of cheese, but it is simply leading up to the statement 
that I am not stretching things one bit when I say that the 
people out here are the most delighful, original, unique, 
clever and altogether charming human beings that it has 
ever been my good fortune to be thrown in with. They say 
and do everything in such an absolutely natural way and are 
quite without pose or affectation. Of course, there’s the 
usual amount of gossip that there always is in a small town, 
possibly a little more than the average, but one naturally 
expects that in such a place. And did you ever notice that 
the average village gossips are usually perfectly safe as 
regards any slurring or suggestive remarks being cast in 
their direction. There is no smoke without a little fire, you 
know, and the blaze in most cases exists in the fact that 
the objects of slander are usually so much more attractive 
than the ones who malign them, that the igniting spark is 
applied by the green torch of jealousy. I shall probably 
hear something awfully exciting about myself one of these 
days and I certainly hope so. How terrible it would seem 
to be so uninteresting as never to cause the least flutter in 
one’s world. O, spare me that, I pray. The old residents 
call us the “Colony” and the “Stranded Aristocracy” and 
various other appellations of like nature, and, of course, 
that’s their privilege. I say “us” because these dear people 
have welcomed Garry and me into their circle so graciously 
and beautifully that we already feel like part of the big 
family. We are in the bridge club and the walking club 
and have been asked to join everything. 

The “Colony” is composed mainly of city people who 
have come out here to rusticate for a time and who have 
succumbed to the irresistible charm of the place and stayed 
on indefinitely. And I will say in justice to some of the old 
residents that they are very nice and kind-hearted in most 
ways and fairly broad in their conception of life and I 
presume some of the goings-on down at our end of town 
do cause them to raise their eyebrows occasionally, for the 
reason that their lives move along in the same stilted ruts 
that those of their ancestors did before them and they cannot 
conceive of anyone’s being broad enough to have a mind of 
his own. For instance, when Rosamond Thornton was 


[ 19 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“dow n home” for a week not long ago, Bob, her husband, took 
Mrs. Watson to one of the club dances — and why not? Rosa- 
mond and Kate being dearest friends. But the others can’t 
see it that way and the tongues wag merrily. I myself thor- 
oughly approve of it all and think I never saw such friend- 
liness and neighborliness before; the men are so dear and 
kind and thoughtful to all the women and particularly to 
the one who happens to be without an escort. It’s the ‘Uni- 
versal Brotherhood of Man’ exemplified in a most beautiful 
way. And if one of us is ill or tired, many willing hands 
are stretched out to do the countless little things that make 
up the day’s work. Why, when I had tonsilitis last week 
(that’s why I didn’t write) and was in bed and servantless 
and worn to a frazzle, Anne Tennant brought my lunch in 
every day daintily arranged on a brass tray with a fresh posy 
lying on the spotless napkin, Esther Lane dashed in two 
nights and cooked the dinner and little Cary Felice Watson 
ran up in the evening and washed the dishes and arranged 
the things for breakfast. I never saw anything like it before; 
it seems to be in the air and people who were hard and cold 
and selfish before they came here are transformed into lov- 
ing friendliness the minute they reach the place. 

Anne asked me to go into the theatre with her next Satur- 
day, having two dandy seats. I can’t possibly go as Ger- 
trude is coming out with the twinnies so suggested sending 
Garry in my place. Both he and she are delighted but I 
may have reckoned without my host and numerous anony- 
mous epistles may assail me later warning me of my hus- 
band’s perfidy. O, well, tongues may wag and cats may mew 
but I’ll do as I jolly please with my own possessions and, 
like the peasant, I can say of Garry — “A poor thing, but 
mine own.” No, I don’t mean that for a minute. He’s 
perfectly adorable and I never have been able to understand 
just why I happened to appeal. Truly — it’s a strange world. 

June 6. 

The natives have called on me in droves and are so nice, 
some of them having minds of their own and being quite 
human. There’s a Mrs. Larrabee who is a perfect scream 
and to whom house-keeping and all that pertains thereto 
is the one topic of conversation. ‘All the world’s’ her house 
to Mrs. L., but she has a few grains of humor and goes about 
in the ‘colony’ quite a bit. Most of the natives are awfully 


[ 20 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


interested in church work and I do like to see it. All the 
churches are thriving except our poor little Episcopal af- 
fair, seven being the average number who attend, and that’s 
the solemn truth. Martin Brinkerhoff, Sally’s husband, 
plays the organ and the choir is composed of any of the 
congregation who signify their willingness to get up there 
and sing, in vestments though, of course. Martin plays 
beautifully and looks like a dream in the organ loft; he cer- 
tainly is good-looking. Marcia Norrington says he is a per- 
fect Apollo and the handsomest man in Stormfield without 
a doubt; I don’t agree with her, of course, for I know that 
Garry is, he is so aristocratic looking and his mouth is 
without a rival for absolute adorableness — it expresses 
pathos and determination and courage and human weakness 
all blended together and molded into bis dear face. 

It seems that one reason for the pitifully small congre- 
gation is the fact that the present minister is not very popu- 
lar and they are all anxious to get rid of him, but he is a 
mere boy and cannot be expected to expound a la Henry 
Ward Beecher. I dragged Garry, protesting at every step, 
to our little church Easter Sunday morning and he swears 
that he will never go again and I don’t much blame him as 
there were just a handful there. However, I presume that 
we are just as much at fault as any of the others when it 
comes to lack of enthusiasm in the church work; with us all 
it is invariably, “What can I get out of it?” instead of “What 
can I put into it?” and we remain dormant waiting for things 
to be made pleasant and alluring for us instead of bustling 
round in an endeavor to make the church life and work a 
Httle more interesting to some of the others. 

Our garden is a sight to fill one with joy, our lawn is 
beautiful and the hut itself is certainly cunning inside. 
Esther Lane calls it the ‘House of a Thousand Candles’ and, 
do you know, my passion for candlesticks Has not abated 
one whit — I have thirty-seven now, fifteen pairs and seven 
siingle ones, and all contributions in that line will be grate- 
fully received. 

Amy and Ned have gone into town to stay with Amy’s 
mother for a time; we shall miss them but will probably see 
Ned often, as lawn and garden will need attention. Speak- 
ing of lawns and gardens reminds me that I have neglected 
to mention the Hastings or their house, the former being 
two of the most hospitable people I have ever known (and 


[ 21 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


having two adorable children just the ages of Nancy and 
Philip) and the latter being a thing of beauty and a joy 
forever — a low, broad white tile structure with spacious 
verandas, overhanging eaves, flower bordered brick walls 
and many other charming features, the delightful whole 
being set carelessly down in the middle of an apple orchard 
and looking as if it grew there, so harmonious is the blend- 
ing of the perfect architectural lines, the riot of garden color 
and the twisted, blossomy trees. Roxane has put the tennis 
court at our disposal and I venture to say that the booking of 
Garry’s Saturday afternoons and Sundays for the following 
season would not be a difficult task. 

Nancy and Philip are playing at the side of the house, 
swishing their little bare feet in the soft, ribbony grass — 
how I envy them ! I will wait until it is dark tonight and go 
and do likewise. Isn’t it strange, Jinny dear, that more peo- 
ple do not stop their mad search for happiness, rushing hither 
and thither, and look nearer home? To my mind the mere 
joy of living is such an inestimable privilege that great ser- 
enity should come with the realization of it — and then the 
wonderful beauties that may be had for the asking! One 
evening not long ago, when things had gone topsy turvy 
all day and I had walked several hot, dusty miles to see my 
laundress’ new grandchild, I found myself in such a dis- 
agreeable mood that I called a sharp halt and began to enum- 
erate the things that I had seen and heard that day that 
were really beautiful. I was so amazed at the way they 
mounted up that I made them into a little rhyme which I will 
copy here for you. And remember, Virginia, that these are 
but an hundredth part of the wonders of one little common- 
place day; 


Common Things. 

Rose petals, opened for a brown bee’s sips, 

An apple tree, with tinted blossoms bowed; 
The fragrance from a drowsy balby’s lips, 

The beaten, frothy billow of a cloud. 

A sea of waving grasses, and a star, 

A stream of silver ribbon, winding, long; 

A red and golden sunset; from afar 

The plaintive crooning of the night owl’s song. 


[ 22 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Green hills, all hazy with a purple mist, 

A row of stately lilies, ivory hued; 

A pair of blue bird lovers, keeping tryst, 

A lone tree, regal in it’s solitude. 

A meadow, white with daisies, and a lark 
Winging his flight through perfume-laden air; 

A fire-fly’s glinting signal in the dark. 

Some happy childish voices free from care. 

A cow-bell, tinkling on the summer breeze. 

The swish of tumbling water in the vale; 

The baby moon face peering o’er the trees, 

With twilight stealing down the dying day’s trail. 

Virginia, I am really beginning to think that I am on the 
track of “The Blue Bird,” that circuitous and apparently end- 
less trail which begins and ends in our own hearts. 

I must now cease this prattle and dress the children for 
the Kauffmann party, next door. Theodore-the-Great would 
be dee-lighted with Dora, I am sure, as she has several small 
sons and says that to be the mother of a round dozen is her 
ambition. Her husband is Julius Kauffmann, the well- 
known and brilliant attorney of Buffalo, you know. I am 
going up to Lotus Cottage as soon as I have dispatched the 
babies, as I have a wild desire to see that interesting woman 
again. 

June 9. 

The darning basket is filled to overflowing, the day’s 
meals are not even planned and the childrens’ faces are 
sadly in need of an application of soap and water, but I will 
have to pass up these trivial matters until I have told you of 
my visit to the cottage in the woods. My dear there’s some- 
thing wierd back of it all and I cannot understand it. I 
walked boldly to the door and the lady opened it herself; I 
politely presented my card which she scarcely glanced at 
(and I am so proud of that “Mrs. Garret Schuyler VanClief,” 
too), and said that I had come to call. She was very gracious 
but a tiny bit cool at first. I thought, as though she resented 
my intrusion, but I hadn’t been there long before she warmed 
up and acted quite friendly. Garry says he never saw any- 
thing like the way people always tell me the story of their 
life and their mother’s name before she was married and the 


[ 23 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


amount of their family income before they have known me 
an hour, but that’s only one of his foolish ideas. The dog 
eyed me suspiciously, however, all the time I was there. I 
told my hostess that my name was Nancy VanClief and that 
I lived down in the town and that she’d made such an impres- 
sion upon me that I simply had to come and that I had lots 
of lovely friends who would love to come too, if she would 
give us the privilege of knowing her — all without stopping for 
breath. She said that her name was Mrs. Bradley (but the 
old woman called her Miss Rachel) and that she was most 
grateful for my interest and that of my friends, but that she 
would have to decline as she had been there several months 
and would be there indefinitely and that it would be impossi- 
ble for her to be taken into our circle as she couldn’t explain 
why she was there or anything about herself but could only 
tell that a great trial had come into her life and she was 
working out or trying to work out her own salvation. 

“So you see,” she concluded, “you can hardly take me 
in without any explanations on my part and then it would 
hardly be fair to — to — , but you are all very welcome here 
and I hope you will all stop when you’re going through the 
woods. And I know so many of you by sight,” she added, 
brightening, “and I have woven stories about you all.” 

Well, Virginia, you know that I am naturally impulsive 
but really I have never gone so pell-mell into anything be- 
fore. I fell completely under the spell of her personality 
and told her that she simply must give us the joy and pleas- 
ure of her friendship. She has more magnetism than any 
person I ever met in my life. 

Last evening at the bridge club I was telling them all 
about her and they are just as interested as I am. Anne 
struck it right, I think, when she remarked that a true gen- 
tlewoman didn’t have to be tagged or present credentials 
and we would gladly welcome her for herself alone. But I 
can easily understand Mrs. Bradley’s reticence about it; the 
world is hard, you know, and it does look queer, to say the 
least. Her house is as magnetic as she is; it’s nothing but 
a shack consisting of a big living room, two cubby holes of 
bedrooms and a rickety kitchen; you can see it all at one 
glance if the doors are opened as they happened to be. The 
living room walls are covered with brown burlap and there 
is a rough stone fireplace, and an improvised window seat 
running along the whole west wall which is nearly all low 


[ 24 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


windows — looking out on the pond. There’s a plain mis- 
sion table on wlhich is a copper lamp, and a few chairs — ^ 
sleepy hollow one and a few wicker effects; in one corner 
is a low divan and in the other a round dining table cen- 
tered with a low brass bowl of violets; just one rug, a dream 
of a Bokhara, some good pictures, a lot of books and last 
but not least, a Steinway baby grand piano! Now what do 
you make of it? “It was not easy to get my piano here,’* 
she said, “but I simply couldn’t live without it.” 

She, herself, is hard to describe accurately because her 
chief charm is in her ever changing expression and the way 
her face lights up when she speaks. She’s rather tall, 
dark hair, coiled loosely and low in her neck, a not very 
pretty nose, lovely ears (I always notice ears) and fine teeth. 
As for eyes — well, they’re gray or blue or green or violet or 
all four in one. I’m sure I don’t know, they’re so Chameleon- 
like, and they are shaded by the loveliest brows and lashes I 
ever saw. Lastly a chin that expresses all the stubborn- 
ness and determination of countless ancestors developed to 
the fullest extent in this woman; yet it is not prominent by 
any means and her mouth has the most pathetic droop 
imaginable. But that chin and a curious glint that I noticed 
two or three times in her eyes may explain something of 
the situation. However time will tell. Her hands are 
pretty and were perfectly bare, not a sign oT a ring, though 
I could see where a wedding ring had been, I know. Now 
I can hear you saying, “O, Nancy always imagines things as 
she wants them to be,” but really any one would notice the 
mark — it’s quite distinct. She had on a lavender linen 
dress and pretty pumps and silk stockings. I was pleased 
to notice the last items for silk stockings and pretty shoes 
are my only extravagances as you know and I firmly believe 
that if I ever have to go to the poorhouse in rags and tat- 
ters and on the verge of starvation, I will have on silk 
stockings and pretty shoes for I will part with everything 
else first. I also approved of the attractive dress, even up 
in a hut in the woods because it shows that she is a true 
woman, for of course no real woman is ever absolutely in- 
different to a pretty dress or ceases to care how she looks 
no matter where she may be. I left after having a delicious 
cup of tea and some awfully good cookies, thanking her for 
letting me come and begging her to come and see me very 
soon. She wouldn’t promise but I know she will come. O, 


[ 25 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


I forgot to tell you that her voice is exactly like Ethel 
Barrymore’s. 


June 16. 

To know Anne Tennant is a liberal education; positively 
I never saw her equal — such charm, such originality and 
suc^h breadth of vision! Really one could write a book 
about her and it would be a best seller, I’m sure; the only 
draw-back would be that pen and ink could not half do her 
justice. She adores animals and has a perfect menagerie in 
her house; a large setter, an Angora cat, two baby gold 
fishes (Cain and Abel) in a tiny aquariam, a canary bird, a 
mongrel dog that she took in off the street and that sleeps 
beside her bed, and a poll-parrot that is the most human 
creature I ever saw. She also keeps her eye on every stray 
animal, fowl or bird within a radius of several miles and 
was up at three one morning last week taking care of a 
wounded robin that had fallen out of a nest. I won’t say 
that she is absolutely indifferent to clothes for that would 
not be true and ishe’s too charmingly feminine to be so any- 
way, but as a rule she doesn’t care a rap what she wears 
and dons any article of wearing apparel tliat may be at 
hand. And that is the secret of her great charm, I think — 
she is equally at ease in a Paris gown or a costume made up 
of articles of Dick’s or Patty’s or Shirley’s, and likewise 
quite as delightful. 

Richard, Senior, is most unusual; full of fun and always 
ready for a good time but sort of “old school,” you know, 
quiet and dignified and of a calm and courtly manner that 
one does not meet with often nowadays. I sometimes won- 
der if he ever really gets ‘mad’ at anything. 

Yesterday Anne did a most remarkable thing. All the 
rest of the family happened to be away for the day and 
Anne herself, with my assistance, was hurrying to make 
the noon train and had scarcely a moment to spare, when 
the worst looking ruffian imaginable came to the door and 
demanded some food; he had close cropped hair and the 
prison pallor on his face and was really a sight to shatter 
a womans’ nerves. I simply had to leave to get to the 12:15 
trolley to meet Ethel Barton but stayed long enough to wit- 
ness an unusual performance. Anne asked the man in and 
rushed around and set out on the dining-room table a most 
inviting looking lunch of bread, butter, cheese, veal loaf. 


[ 26 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


strawiberry jam and potato chips, all of which happened to 
be at hand. Hastily taking a sterling silver knife, fork and 
spoon from the buffet drawer she placed them beside the 
food, explaining meanwhile that she had to leave in order 
to catch a train, that there was some hot tea left from her 
luncheon in the teapot, that the house was entirely alone and 
would he please shut the door after him as he went out. She 
then dashed out the front door and I out the back wondering 
what the world was coming to. When she returned about 
six she found the dishes washed and piled neatly on the 
kitchen table, the doors all shut and a note from man thank- 
ing her for the food but particularly for trusting him, saying 
that it was the first act of kindness that had ever been done 
to him and that it would be a help and inspiration to him 
all the rest of his life. Now there is food for thought, sister 
mine, and 1 hope to profit by Anne’s example myself in all 
my future dealings with humanity in general and with ex- 
convicts in particular. 

Last night we went to a delightful lawn party at the 
Hobart (Marstons; their grounds are enormous and full of 
lovely shrubbery and trees and vines and the whole scene 
was like Fairyland with the hundreds of Japanese lanterns 
strung all about and the moonlight streaming through the 
trees. We met the elder Watsons there — father and mother- 
in-law of the pretty Mrs. Kate. They have just returned 
from a visit in the East and are as delightful as all the other 
members of the colony. Also a daughter, Elizabeth, not par- 
ticularly young but most distinguished looking and attrac- 
tive, and an exceedingly amusing son, whom everyone called 
Len, about forty, not a practical joker by any means, but 
the clever sort who is continually making apt remarks and 
saying things that are excruciatingly funny. He is a mem- 
ber of the large and international family of divorcees and has 
a young son of eighteen somewhere in the universe. I’m 
told, but nobody seems to know much about his present 
location. The whole thing is tragic and a great pity and 
yet divorce is a great blessing sometimes I believe: there’s 
no sacredness in two people living together as man and wife 
when they loathe one another and usually there is much to 
be said for and against both sides. Still I do think that 
separation would do in many cases and if the people in 
question would be patient they’d find that there are worse 
states of existence than living in only semi-harmony with 


[ 27 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


one’s husband or wife even though relations are somewhat 
strained. You remember Peter’s advice to Zoe and Theodore 
in “Mid-Channel,” how he urged them to try and bear with 
one another a little longer until they had safely passed the 
shoals of temporary incompatibility that are mid-channel in 
the stream of every married life. 

Do write soon and tell me what there is to the Honolulu 
proposition — would it be for more than two or three months, 
do you suppose? Of course, you would almost pass away 
without Billy but such a trip for him with that old Midas 
would be quite a sinecure — or epicure, as Mrs. Barney, my 
fat laundress, said the other day in speaking of her nephew’s 
short hours. She also remarked, as she stood gazing at my 
Winged Victory, “I suppose that there woman had a head 
on eventually, didn’t she?” She is a continual treat. 

I was decidedly wrong about Patty Tennant (Virginia, 
you know), for far from being cold and distant, she’s the 
very embodiment of warm hearted girlishness and sweetness 
and a perfect dear. Betty VanClief announced her engage- 
ment to the family last week and is radiantly happy. Jerry 
Burton, the lucky man, is from Montreal and is almost good 
enough for Betty. She certainly is the dearest sister-in-law 
that ever a girl had and I “sure do” appreciate the fact. 

Gertrude and the twinnies spent last Saturday here and 
the honorable Gertrude made me positively weary. She has 
forgotten Ralph’s existence since those babies came. She’s 
the sort of woman who is all mother and not wife at all — 
the kind to whom motherhood is more vital than wifehood 
and to whom one’s husband is a mere machine to furnish 
the w^here withal to meet the family expenses while her child- 
ren are her very life. O, these unseeing women, cannot they 
perceive their mistake? “By no means neglect your child- 
ren” say I to all women in general and to the Gertrude type 
in particular, “but remember that there is a happy medium 
and that you had your husband before you had your children 
and that you will probably have him long after your children 
are married and in homes of their own, and don’t make him 
take a back seat the minute the first baby arrives on the 
scene.” And it’s my opinion, Virginia, that it’s a mighty 
stupid woman who cannot be a devoted mother to her child- 
ren and at the same time be a loving, interested and unselfish 
wife. Why, Garry and I are pals and make the utmost of 
every minute together in this uncertain existence and if 


[ 28 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Nancy and Phil are suffering from neglect they certainly 
don’t show it. 

I have kept my best news until last. Rachel Bradley 
came to see me yesterday, saying that she had thought it all 
over and would love to have us all for friends and be our 
friend if we cared to have her. I only wish you might know 
her, Virginia; there’s a subtle and elusive something about 
her that defies description. 


June 24. 

’Tis said that great literary lights have no conception of 
order or system and are always unpractical, but don’t you 
believe it! My new maid-of-all-work, Norah, worked for 
Anne Tennant for two years and a half and a better helper 
I have never had. She went to Anne a green country girl 
and learned everything she knows while there and it certain- 
ly speaks well for Anne’s teaching and capability along prac- 
tical lines. Norah cooks and does everything else beauti- 
fully, quickly and quietly (accent on quietly) and is really 
a most finished product. 

The Vale baby came last night and is a girl, to be named 
Martha, after Amy’s mother. They are still in Buffalo, you 
know, and will be, of course, for a few weeks but Ned comes 
out often to cut the grass and see that the weeds aren’t 
outclassing the vegetables in his thriving garden. Ethel 
Barton has been here for a few days and is quite carried 
away by the atmosphere of the place but says she couldn’t 
stand a country town for steady diet. I took her down 
town this morning and gave her a view of Stormfield on a 
busy day. We actually saw three automobiles and seven 
wagons and easily fifteen people scurrying about in the 
“heart of the business district” — she was quite thrilled and 
wonders how we stand the excitement. Jean Carson came 
up last evening with a youth who appealed to me at first 
glance, one Norton ChaddocTi, called “Sliv” — why, I don’t 
know, for there’s nothing particularly sylph-like about him. 
He is madly in love with Jean, as most all men are. Patty 
Tennant has a long train of admirers also — that is, as long 
a train as one can have in this town. I never saw so few 
eligible young men in my life. Gilbertine Watson doesn’t 
care a rap for the men and simply will not put herself out 
to be nice to them. I admire her for it to a certain extent 
but her decidedly independent disposition is a draw-back at 


[ 29 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


times. She’s an unusually fine girl, however, and I’m aw- 
fully fond of her. I went up stairs a few moments ago and 
found “my favorite son” dancing madly up and down on 
my perfectly good mattress and springs that cost a small 
fortune. He was having the time of his young life and 
bounding nearly to the ceiling: before I had time to say 
a word he called out breathlessly, “You needn’t tell me to 
stop doing this, Mubbie, dear, because I simple won’t!” I 
immediately put into practice the old adage that actions 
speak louder than words. 

Everyone knows that there is some relationship between 
the Vales and us and think of course that Ned and I are 
sister and brother or cousins or something because I was a 
Vale in the days of my youth. A queer coincidence, isn’t it? 
I have to explain a thousand times a day that the handsome 
blonde and I are nothing to each other whatsoever but that 
I’d gladly be a sister to him if need be. 

Last evening a man drove up and introduced himself as 
Dr. Bryant, a Buffalo dentist of whom you have often heard, 
I’m sure, and said that he was delegated to ask me to take 
charge of a folk dance or something of the sort, to be one 
of the numbers on the program at the iSociety Circus, July 
4th and further stated that the committee had heard of my 
cleverness and versatility in the dancing line (flowers grate- 
fully declined) and all felt sure that my acceptance of the 
office would insure an unqualified success and so on ad 
finatum. I fell all over myself trying not to act conscious 
and with my usual good nature accepted with alacrity and 
then went in and broke the news to Garry who scolded me 
unmercifully for getting into any more things. I decided 
that an Indian dance would be most artistic and began at 
once to think up the performers. I shall ask young Mrs. 
Kendricks, Gilbertine and Patty, of course, Rita Marston, lit- 
tle Lulu Albright, Ethel and Natalie from the city, and, oh 
I can easily get twelve maidens and Dick Tennant, Junior, 
and a few other lads for scouts, and if Martin Brinkerhoff will 
play for us we will carry off the honors without a doubt. 
I’ll ask all the girls to come here to concoct costumes and 
rehearse and if I offer much food as an inducement I am sure 
they will all accept. 

Garry is working diligently on some proverb contest for 
which the first prize is an automobile and the children are 
already asking their playmates for different dates next sum- 


[ 30 ] 


A Baby Pond to the West ” — Page 17 















A BIT O’ SILENCE 


mer in “our machine.” Did I tell you that the Buells are 
going to leave town for good? Yes, they’re going to Pitts- 
burg to live and we are certainly sorry and they are too only 
that it means a promotion for Larry. But it’s just my luck 
to have them go as soon as we get here. Talk about Tom 
Moore and his dear gazelle! Himmell! Honestly, if I ever 
fulfill the dream of my life and go to Egypt, I expect to find 
that the pyramids were removed the day before and the 
Nile dried up during the night, while the Sphinx will prob- 
ably be shouting directions to tourists at the top of it’s voice ! 

July 1. 

There’s another American citizen — yes, a brand new baby 
son came to the Kauffman’s last night, “out of the every- 
where into the here.” So be it — all boys, and some families 
have daughters to burn! Dora seems perfectly happy, 
though, they say, and is so proud of her boy. I love to see 
that attitude in anyone and always feel a sense of shame 
and injustice when newly made mothers and fathers express 
their disappointment in actions or words. If they don’t get 
what they want they might make a bluff at pretending they 
are satisfied anyway. A well, strong baby is a gift straight 
from Heaven and should be accepted as such with no mur- 
murings of dissatisfaction whether it be a cunning boy or a 
tiny girl. O, yes, I know it’s all right for me to talk when 
I have a beautiful little daughter and a handsome son, but 
I know I would anyway. Philip is so disgusted that the wise 
old bird passed up our house and says that he is going over 
to see Dr. Kendricks and ask for four boy babies for us — 
Garry says to make it eight and have a baseball nine of our 
own. By the way, our nice doctor is going to give up his 
practice and go into some electrical business in New York. 
Everyone will miss him very much but there are two young 
physicians coming this fall, the one that appeals to me par- 
ticularly being a Stormfield boy — Dr. Colt. He is to be mar- 
ried in September and begin practice immediately. In the 
meantime we must all be very careful not to break any limbs 
or develop anything startling for I simply couldn’t call in 
some of the other old fogies here, though they are very good, 
I believe. Dr. Kendrick’s wife is so delighted at the idea of 
going; she’s a stunning girl and Fifth Avenue and Broad- 
way are much more to her liking than Stormfield’s muddy 
roads and one main street. Anne and Dick are giving a 


[ 31 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


breakfast party Sunday morning and we will all be there 
“with bells on” you may be sure. Garry and I are going 
to take Bruce McCrea with us and introduce him to the 
stranded aristocracy. You remember he was a great friend 
and frat brother of Garry’s in high school and we are both so 
fond of him. He’s a metallurgist or some wierd thing like 
that at the big steel foundry and has come out here to board 
at Mrs. Brooks. I’m sure they all will like him. He’s not an 
Adonis exactly but is such a great big fine creature, so open 
and fair in all things; there certainly is nothing subtle about 
Bruce and no hidden meaning in anything he may say. I 
hope you received the newspaper clipping about Mother 
Van’s wedding — it was very quiet and Mother was a dream 
in pale gray broadcloth while Mr. Horton (what on Earth 
shall we call him?) fairly beamed with happiness. They 
have gone abroad for a couple of months and may all good 
wishes and happiness go with them. 

I manage to see Rachel Bradley every day or so and 
grow fonder of her all the time. It seems strange that 
some of the people didn’t discover her before but she was 
sick a great deal when she first came, just out of a hospital, 
convalescing from a nervous breakdown and didn’t go out 
very much. Some of the girls remember seeing her on the 
street and in the woods at odd times and had noticed that 
someone was living in the old lumber shack but it took me 
to make the real find. Garry says it simply was because I 
never miss anything under any circumstances but I know 
that I was led directly to her. 

We are busy getting ready for the Society Circus on July 
fourth — Phil’s birthday too, you know. Everybody has 
worked like beavers, rehearsals are going beautifully and 
our costumes are fascinating, I think. Indian things do ap- 
peal to me strongly; I believe I must have been an Indian 
maiden in some other incarnation for all things Indian go 
right to the spot with me. Garry is sure I was a fire wor- 
shipper and says he knows I’d have a roaring fire all sum- 
mer if he would let me. Well, I certainly love fire and like 
not only the scorching sun and a warm room but I like to 
feel the heat penetrating to my very bones. 

Nancy just came in, weeping, with her doll’s face smashed 
completely off. Anne who came in behind her said doll now 
had what might be called an open countenance, as it were. 


[ 32 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


July 5. 

W o w-wo w-wow-Hiawatha-Minnehaha tum-tum-tum and 
so forth and so on ! I’m so steeped in Indian music and danc- 
ing and sounds that I won’t be able to do a thing but string 
beads, wear mocassins and paint my face for months. It 
gets into one’s blood and makes one fairly dance for joy! 
There were ten numbers on the program yesterday and our 
stunt was given first prize, showing that the committee of 
awards had excellent judgment. It was most exciting — a 
parade of all the performers in the morning through the town 
and two performances in the big tent, one at two and the 
other at eight. I concocted some Indian togs for Nancy and 
Phil and they rode on the float with us to their unspeakable 
delight. Our costumes were very attractive, really even the 
plainest of the girls looking most handsome. Our faces, 
necks and arms were covered with a rich brown stain and 
our cheeks and lips tinted a lovely red. We wore very short 
brown burlap dresses, with red, yellow and brown fringe at 
the bottom and queer designs worked on in wampum, and In- 
dian characters painted on in black. They were made in one 
piece, low necked and short sleeved and we had countless 
strings of beads around our necks and wrists while bead 
leggins and mocassins, which we rented, completed the daz- 
zling effect. We wore our hair hanging loose with bright 
red bands across our foreheads fastened in the back with 
beads, and two Indian quills stuck lightly in on one side. We 
'‘played to packed houses” at both performances. I couldn’t 
persuade Rachel to take part but she went as a spectator and 
assisted Garry at keeping an eye on the kiddies. Our dance 
was about mid-way on the program and certainly made a hit. 
The big tent was filled with a seething mass of humanity 
and while the afternoon performance was simply great, the 
one in the evening was far prettier, the darkness giving a 
more realistic effect. Martin was at the piano at the rear 
of the stage and as he softly played the first few strains of 
“Creeping” — a little Indian melody, Patty, looking adorable 
as an Indian maiden, stealthily mounted the platform and 
lighted the incense and red light in an old Indian kettle that 
Anne was induced to part with for the occasion and which 
was suspended from an old iron tripod. Four Indian scouts 
in full regalia then dashed up and at a signal consisting of 
four shots in quick succession from their revolvers all the 
Indian maids pranced up in true aboriginal style, flourishing 


[ 33 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


their tomahawks, Martin playing the entrancing Indian music 
meanwhile. We quietly dropped down around the camp 
fire until the music broke into “Big Chief” and everyone 
danced back and forth across the stage singing it. At the 
conclusion we fell into our places around the fire and three 
of us — Young Dick Tennant, little Lulu Albright and Yours 
truly arose in turn and gave solo dances that were wildly 
applauded; Dick’s was a sort of a cross between a clog and 
a cakewalk but was fine just the same. Lulu’s was a real 
Indian affair that her dancing master taught her, while mine 
was a little Indian flame dance that I improvised as I went 
along. O, the joy of it, back and forth over the fire and 
around and around and up and down the stage I went in a 
perfect ecstasy — I love it so; and Martin’s accompaniments 
were excellent while the lights and the color and the fire were 
most artistic. Martin played some fascinating Indian airs 
while we went through some romping Indian drill effects and 
ended with a genuine Apache dance. The applause was deaf- 
ening as we went off the stage with a war-whoop and we sang 
“Rain-in-the-Face” for an encore together with our interpre- 
tation of a band of the red ones on the war path. It was 
great and I never had so much real fun and enjoyment out 
of anything before. No more stilted civilization after this — 
it’s the simple life and ‘back to nature’ for mine! Only two 
hitches marred the perfect completeness of the whole thing. 
In the afternoon Dick Tennant accidentally shot Mildred 
Kendricks in the arm and Dr. Laurie, her husband, you 
know, had to hurry her home in his automobile to cauterize 
the wound, which was not at all serious, fortunately; and at 
the conclusion of the evening performance Patty fell head- 
long off the stage in her haste to join a devoted suitor who 
was waiting to walk home with her, but a slight shaking-up 
was all it amounted to. The prize was three large bags of 
flour which I immediately donated to some poor families. 
I presume our beautiful maternal parent will be shocked 
beyond measure when an account of her daughter’s antii^s 
reaches her ears although she was once heard to remark that 
as far as her daughter Nancy’s actions were concerned her 
system had become shock-proof long ago. 

Rachel came in this morning with Copper while we wer? 
at breakfast saying that she had been walking in the woods 
since dawn and decided that a cup of coffee sipped in our 
presence would sort of give a finishing touch to the thing. 


[ 34 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“Would’st like to scan the morning Record, Rachel 
asked Garry, offering it to her from force of habit. 

“No, thank you, Van.” she answered, ‘T never read the 
papers.” 

“Water!” shrieked Garry, “I shall faint — you certainly 
are of a different persuasion than my charming wife,” he 
added, “she sleeps with them and devours them with all her 
meals.” 

“Wretch,” I said, “would you have me uninformed as to 
course of current events or be in doubt as to whether the 
Smiths or Jones are in town or out — hand me the paper this 
instant, you took it before I had half finished.” O, will peo- 
ple ever stop teasing me about the way I peruse the papers, 
I wonder? 

Anne’s breakfast party Sunday was a treat; it was a 
perfect day; the sky was as blue as Nancy’s eyes and the lilt 
of bird songs filled the air while the dozens of rose bushes 
in Anne’s garden shed their fragrance lavishly, the delicious 
scents being wafted to our grateful senses through the 
windows which were flung wide open to the summer breeze. 
All the world seemed in harmonius tune. The colony turned 
out in full force, the men declaring that they hated awfully 
to tear themselves away from church but would make the 
concession just this once. Anne knew the chairs wouldn’t 
hold out so didn’t try to seat the multitude and we arranged 
ourselves artistically about the floor and window seats. A 
huge mound of the celebrated Stormfield strawberries on a 
big wicker tray formed the bewitching centerpiece for the 
buffet table while deep red June roses were strewn carelessly 
about. We consumed many dozens of hot buttered rolls, 
large platters of fried chicken, deep bowls of scalloped pota- 
toes and coffee that Garry declared was “almost as good 
as Grandmother’s.” 

“Help, help, Kate is eating the decorations,” shouted Geoff 
Donnelly, as that charming lady began to nibble daintily 
at the scarlet mound. 

“O, she’d eat her best friends out of house and home,” said 
Anne, complacently, “but let her alone, Geoff, she’s apt to get 
violent, you know, if she’s interfered with.” Bruce looked 
questioningly at me for a brief moment and then with a 
wicked glance at his hostess followed Kate’s example. 


[ 35 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“You’re all right, Bruce, you’re one of us,” cried Dick, 
slapping him on the back, “that’s what they’re there for — 
decorations be hanged!” ^ 

“O, very well,” said Anne, “spoil the looks of my party 
if you want to, for as usual in this house, what the Oracle 
decrees is law — so pitch in, good people, and do your worst. 
Anyway it’s the last I’m going to give for a long while, we’re 
so poor,” she continued, “and I’ve decided to sell everything 
in the house except the live-stock so look around and select 
what you want and you can have things at your own price, 
then we’ll auction off what’s left or have a series of raffles; 
this poverty business is getting tiresome and I’ll gladly dis- 
pose of everything, the children included.” 

We drank our coffee out under the trees in the garden, 
and then wandered up and down the rough stone paths, loth 
to turn our backs upon it’s allurements. 

Bruce made a most favorable impression upon everyone 
as I knew he would and he expressed his gratitude to us 
most warmly for having brought him, his strong face beam- 
ing. 

“And so you really like our friends?” I inquired, as we 
walked home along the sun-flower bordered path connect- 
ing Anne’s garden with ours. 

“Like them!” he ejaculated, “they’re the best ever — they 
make a fellow feel right at home the first thing — it’s awfully 
good of you two to take so much interest in me — and I appre- 
ciate it more than I can tell you — it’s going to make mother’s 
being — away — a lot easier, too,” he finished, huskily. 

“Don’t speak of it, dear,” I said, hastily, “and remember 
that it’s as great a pleasure for them to have you for a friend 
as for you to have all of them. Isn’t Anne a delightful 
hostess?” I went on, “do you know, she has the art down 
finer than anyone I ever knew with the exception of Aunt 
Charlotte Fillmore. Aunt Charlotte certainly heads the list 
and has a knack of making everyone who enters her door 
feel absolutely at ease — they know they are welcome and feel 
perfectly at home from the first minute. It’s an art I tell 
you and I’m trying hard to acquire it though it’s born in one. 
Goodness knows everyone is always more than welcome in 
my home and I try to imbue the atmosphere with a spirit of 
warm friendliness but I haven’t Aunt Charlotte’s gift for a 
minute,” and I sighed audibly. 


[ 36 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“Listen to her ranting, Bruce,” said Garry, “why, man, 
Nan welcomes every Tom, Dick and Harry that comes along 
with open arms and would take in anyone without a question 
— ^I’ve often said that we ought to christen our home ‘The 
House of Refuge’ and remarked that it would have been a 
good ‘underground railway station’ in slave-days.” 

“Well, I try to be human, anyway,” I remarked, “but I’m 
not a circumstance to Anne or Aunt Charlotte for a minute 
— dear Aunt Charlotte — how lovable and unselfish and won- 
derful she is!” 

“Well, you’re all right, Nancy, just the same, and I’m 
awfully strong for you,” declared Bruce, whereupon Garry 
put his arm around me and drew me close to him, as he al- 
ways does when Other men say nice things to me. 

“Tell me about that attractive Mrs. Bradley who went 
home with the Thorntons,” said Bruce, “she certainly made 
a hit with me — has she a husband and where does she live?” 

“She lives with her servant, Melia, and her dog. Copper, 
up in a cottage in the woods,” I explained, “and we all love 
her very much and have induced her to go about with us — 
there’s a sort of mystery about her and as she doesn’t seem 
inclined to lift the veil, we accept her without any explana- 
tions on her part as to why she’s here or what she’s doing; 
so be careful not to make any breaks,” I admonished. 

“I will indeed,” agreed Bruce, “all I ask is to be allowed 
to look at her once in a while — when do you suppose we’ll 
see her again?” 

“Hold on, there,” said Garry, “don’t lose your head, an 
irate husband and flock of children may appear on the scene 
any day.” 

“O, don’t joke about her, dear,”I pleaded, “she’s so lovely 
and so sad and pitiful, and as for seeing her,” I added turn- 
ing to Bruce “hardly a day passes but what we are together. 
I consider her one of my dearest friends and count it a great 
privilege to know her.” 

“And likewise do I,” echoed Garry, “I was merely trying 
to check our guest’s headlong tumble over the brink.” 

“Well, I am not usually susceptible,” said Bruce, “so there 
really is cause for alarm.” 

Nancy and Phil dashed up to meet us at this juncture 
so further conversation on the subject was prevented. I do 
hope Bruce won’t fall in love with Rachel because it wouldn t 


[ 37 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


do him any good, I know, and anyway I want him for Gilber- 
tine. 

I will simply have to stop talking to you and tackle the 
darning basket this minute or my family, like the immortal 
Peoria, will be in grave danger of having to “go bare-legged 
to the party.” I almost forget to tell you that, in response to 
repeated pleadings, the children and I are going to Crescent 
Beach about the 10th to spend a few days with Gertrude and 
Ralph at their bungalow. I will leave Garry to the tender 
mercies of Grandma Burwell and will demand of the colony 
daily bulletins, which I will pass along to you. 

Crescent Beach, Ont., July 14. 

Here we are, bag and baggage, having “trolleyed” and 
“ferreyed” and “dummy-trained” in safety, and are having 
a beautiful time. The view in all directions is superb and the 
beach is a long, shining stretch of wonderfully firm sand, 
gold in the sunlight and silver in the moonlight. Ralph calls 
their cottage the “Bungle-O!” — it has so many defects in spite 
of all their careful planning. The babies are very cunning 
and Gertrude is actually beginning to evince an occasional bit 
of interest in her husband despite the momentous fact that 
she is the mother of twins. She is quite chubby (in your 
class, you know) and I feel like a fairy beside her. She says 
that when people don’t want to tell her how stout she is they 
get around it by saying, “Dear me, now nice it must seem 
to be so healthy!” You know you always said that there 
was nothing worse than being called “wholesome looking” 
unless it was being described as “good-hearted,” or having 
someone say of you, “she means well, anyway.” I maintain 
that to be called a “cute little thing” is the worst ever, as it 
means absolutely nothing. I always feel downhearted or 
puffed up according to the way I hear myself described. 
There’s a vast difference, my dear, between being called a 
“skinny little thing” and hearing someone say of you “O, 
she’s so petite and dainty, don’t you know?” 

Anne writes that the Vales are back from town and that 
the baby is darling and the image of Ned, also that Rosamond 
Thornton has a lot of new clothes (she does pick the most 
marvelous things off her rich relatives) and that the Grangers 
have taken the house across from us. They are the people 
from Albany that I wrote you about meeting at Sally’s one 
day. Anne says that Roberta has a large house-party on at 


[ 38 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Fenway Farm and that I must get back in time for the corn- 
roast at the lake which she is planning for her guests. She 
assures me that they are taking good care of Rachel and love 
her more every day. Anne is sure that there is a grand hus- 
band in the case and says that Bruce is certainly madly in 
love with Rachel and that Gilbertine, the man-hater, is evinc- 
ing an unusual interest in Bruce — the plot thickens ! Patty’s 
letter is full of the teacher of Gilbert dancing, who is coming 
to Stormfield for the winter — series of lessons to be ten dol- 
lars per — I haven’t a spare penny but will probably “follow 
the crowd” and Miss Knowles will get her ten dollars per — 
haps. O, that’s awful, I apologize humbly but it just slipped 
out. Last night we went to the Yacht Club dance, Gertrude’s 
baby brother being my cavalier. He’s a nice child of nineteen 
years and six feet of tallness and he dances divinely and was 
most attentive. The perfect enjoyment of the evening, how- 
ever, was marred by the absence of Garry. I have missed 
him every minute, of course, but, actually, when the orchestra 
began playing “My Beautiful Lady,” I thought I’d pass right 
on, for you know how Garry can waltz. But before the even- 
ing was over I had learned to Boston and I forgot completely 
such prosaic things as husbands and home. And such pretty 
girls and dainty gowns — the soft, shimmering vari-colored 
materials looking so pretty against the dark coats of the men. 
But did you ever notice that in ninety-nine books in a hun- 
dred written by men the heroine is invariably attired in “a 
gown of some soft clinging white material with a flower at her 
throat”; why clinging white, especially, I don’t know, but 
white it is and also, invariably, throat. I’m very fond of 
white gowns myself and always have been, but blue crepe 
de chine with pink rosebuds, yellow chiffon with violets 
pink Marquisette with a touch of gold, and pale green messa- 
line with a corsage bouquet of orchids aren’t bad. Garry 
said that he would probably come over to go back with 
us but whether he does or not we turn our faces homeward 
on Saturday. The children have been perfect angels and a 
credit to their beautiful mother every minute. Gertrude 
sends her love to you and many hugs and kisses to the 
diminutive strawberry blonde. 

Stormfield, July 20. 

“Be it ever so ’umble there’s no place like ’ome” — amen. 
One would think that we had been to Africa and back, I 
was so delighted to get here but really the getting home, 


[ 39 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


even if one goes away for but a few days, is the best part of 
the journey — always. 

Esther Lane loathes sewing and loses all patience with me 
for being so bound to the needle and she racks her brain to 
devise ways and means of tearing me away from it. 

“Mrs. Worth,” she said, coming in yesterday to find me 
running the machine like mad, “could you be induced to 
leave that creation, for a brief space and come with me to 
the outskirts of Paris — I have, tied to your hitching post, a 
thing that the livery man called a buggy and a creature with 
four legs that answers to the name of horse and if you will 
share the equipage and likewise the expense we will have 
some fun. I know a dear old road that leads to a dear old 
house in which there are some dear old candlesticks” — she 
went no further, for I hurled the “creation” from me and 
off we went. Such a time as we had! We lost ourselves 
twice, we got stuck in brambles, the horse fell down, we 
found neither the road, the house nor the candlesticks and 
weary, worn and discouraged and in imminent danger of a i 
hot-box, we drove sadly into town with the sun sinking (also 
sadly) into the sad west, and Anne, whom we had picked up 
on the road, perched dejectedly in front of us — her feet 
hanging over in the dust. In short, the affair was not what 
would be termed a success in the true sense of the word. 

But in spite of our weariness we were able to shriek 
at Anne’s story of her day, which had been spent with Rem- 
ington’s old nurse, way down on the Creek road. 

“Girls,” she said, “she’s a treat, quaint and dear, but so 
funny; her one ambition, she says, is to be genteel ^ and she 
picks her words and phrases with such care that they quite 
outdo themselves. I sat demurely through her description 
of the departed daughter Jennie who had such “a bright 
eye” and Tom, very much alive, who had ‘such a nice even 
tooth, even if I do say it’ (I could almost see him with one 
lone molor), but when I praised the pork and beans the 
climax came. ‘O, now go on, Mrs. Tennant,’ she said blush- 
ing with pride, ‘don’t lay the praise to me — maybe I do cook 
’em up well but, then, these are an awful nice beanV 

“Drop me at Buttercup, girls,” she said, “if Kate’s out, 

I’m going to hurl some of her coronation robes upon my 
fairy form in an attempt to dazzle some diplomat or other 
who is coming out in mother’s wake tonight — you know the 
kind that mother always has in tow, and for goodness sake. 


[ 40 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


if either of you has anything particularly inviting in the 
food line, skip up the sunflower path with it and put it on 
the dining-room table; Fll be in the library greeting parent 
and Dip.” 

It’s been sizzling all day and after a quiet morning with 
Rachel in her woods I lunched with Kate at Buttercup. 
Kate loves the heat as much as I do and we just revelled 
in the penetrating rays of the sun — really I’m as brown as 
an Indian while Philip and little Nan are perfect papooses. 
Phil’s physique is marvelous for so young a child — he’ll 
probably be a famous fullback some day. 

I happened to mention after luncheon that as Norah was 
out I’d have to run home and lock the house before going 
down into the seething marts of trade with Gilbertine, and 
Kate, with a look of wonder in her eyes, remarked that such 
a proceeding was the height of folly and a waste of valuable 
time. 

“Because,” she explained, “all that is in your house is 
yours and in my house, mine, therefore, nobody else wants 
it and nobody else will take it so it’s perfectly safe.” Would 
that I could live her religion as she does or had one tiny 
atom of her faith. 

Patty just came in quite disgusted because she had made 
a custard that wouldn’t cuss. 

“There, little girl, don’t cry,” said I, comfortingly, “wait 
until you try to make some frosting and get a frost.” 

“Horrors,” cried Patty, “worse, and more of it; but 
Nancy, darling. I’ll forgive you if you’ll produce something 
in the nature of an evening wrap in which I may swath my- 
self to go to the dance with Howard tonight — mother has 
gone to town with the family raincoat as she’s going down 
the river with the Spauldings and thought she might 
need it.” 

“Help yourself, dear child,” said I, “I haven’t much in 
that line, you know, but you’re more than welcome to my 
scanty stock — just look over the pile of debris in the sewing 
room and take your choice — my military cape might do, only 
it will come about to your knees while it almost trails on 
me. Garry calls me the family scrap-basket because every- 
body hands over all their old duds to me and I have to do 
many queer things to the same in order to make them avail- 
able but I manage to produce some rather pleasing effects, 
nevertheless.” 


[ 41 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“It doesn’t always pay to be too nifty with the needle, 
methinks, for then one has To sew — but I am terribly stupid 
in that respect,” said she, “Verily, blessed is the mother who 
expects nothing in the line of sewing from her eighteen- 
year-old daughter, for she will not be disappointed.” 

“Well, you’re quite clever enough in other ways,” I told 
her, “so don’t worry about it.” 

Yesterday Esther Lane and I nearly had convulsions at 
some epistles we found in her erstwhile maid’s budoir. Said 
maid was about fourteen and had been at Esther’s for sev- 
eral weeks assisting with the house-work, but spending the 
greater part of her time buried in the pages of Bertha M. 
Clay and writing letters to a friend in Akron. She would 
compose them in pencil and then copy them in ink and had 
evidently forgotten to take the original manuscripts with 
her when she departed. Esther and I made peace with our 
consciences and read a few, an extract from one of them 
running thusly: “I wish that you could see me now, Flos- 
sie; I am visiting at Dr. Lane’s manshun on James Avenue; 
they are very wealthy and strictly up to date and they eat 
with their fingers sticking out, they’re so stylish!” 

“ ‘Oh wad some power the giftie gie us — ,’ ” said Esther. 

“ ‘To see oursel’s as others see usi’ ” I finished, and we 
laughed until we cried. 

Addie’s predecessor was continually harping on her large 
circle of acquaintances, every state in the Union being rep- 
resented I think. One morning Esther’s brother, Knowlton, 
was tearing out of the house at breakneck speed to make 
connections with his train for New York when she of the 
large visiting list called shrilly, “O, Mr. Knowlton, Mr. 
Knowlton, come back, wait a minute!” Tony retraced his 
steps thinking that the house was on fire or something 
equally tragic had occurred and maid said coyly, “O, I just 
wanted to ask you to do me a favor. When you get to New 
York will you please give my regards to Mr. Foote?” Knowl- 
ton could have strangled her on the spot but refrained from 
doing so and managed to make h\s train in spite of the delay, 
I believe. Some people always have such funny girls and 
‘then agin’ others do not. 

I did have some amusing experiences, however, with a 
few of the samples who answered the advertisement that I 
put in Stormfield’s one paper before I was fortunate enough 
to secure my prize Norah. One young thing, who was very 


[ 42 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


pretty, said that she wanted but “one night off a week and 
that was Wednesday for prayer-meeting but that she must 
have every Sunday all day as her family had always made a 
practice of being together on the Sabbath! 

“We’re rather given to the same idea,” remarked Garry 
dryly. “I fail to see the point in paying a helper five dollars 
per and then slaving all day Sunday.” 

“Well, I make no exception to the rule,” said the blonde 
one, firmly, “but this place looks awfully good to me and I’d 
love to come and I’m sure you’d find me very satisfactory, 
and you’d get used to the Sunday business,” she concluded, 
reassuringly, “and if you do decide to give me a trial address 
‘Opal Kleener, Toad Hollow, N. Y. ’ ” 

“Wonder if she’s any relation to Pearl Ammonia?” whis- 
pered Garry under his breath and as Miss Opal drove off 
beside the dapper youth who had been waiting for her in 
a runabout he suggested that he wouldn’t waste any time 
or stationery on jewels of the paste variety. 

“These fairies who demand every Sunday do not appeal 
to me, Nancy,” he said decidedly, “and I draw the line at 
that; Sunday is our only whole day together and it’s com- 
pletely spoiled if you are cooking and washing dishes from 
morning to night, and then before you realize it the one 
day proposition evolves itself into week-end house party ef- 
fects and your up against it for certain.” 

I asked a buxom-looking country girl who called why she 
had left her last place, saying that I should think that the 
fact of the Waltons having all the latest electrical appliances 
in the line of flat irons, toasters and vacuum cleaners would 
have been an inducement to stay forever. 

“Well, Ma’am,” she declared vehemently, “all them fancy 
fixins was awful nice and convenient and I liked the missus 
real well, too, but O, them lazy daughters of hers! Why, 
would you believe it, ma’am!” she went on, “I had to do 
every one of them God-forsaken dishes all alone after each 
meal, while them three great girls, not one of ’em bein’ a day 
under sixteen, would get right up from the table just like 
they was company and walk into the parlor and set.” 

August 10. 

It is only recently. Jinny, that I have begun to realize what 
an awful responsibility it is to bring up children; when they 
are tiny babies all that is necessary is to minister to their 


[ 43 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


physical wants and care for them in their helplessness and 
we don’t give a thought to the future, but suddenly — presto, 
change! — they appear before our astounded visions as real 
human beings with minds and wills of their own and char- 
acters to be molded, and we, Virginia, we, the mothers and 
fathers, are the molders and are held responsible for the 
finished product. As I say, I have just begun to feel the 
stupendous importance of the task before me or maybe I am 
getting old, but anyway, I had two little experiences today 
that brought forcibly home the fact that my children are to 
be reckoned with. I was in the middle of a letter from Cor- 
ing this morning and had arrived at the description of Satur- 
day’s game, which he said was the most exciting ever. In the 
last half of the ninth, with the score 3-0 in Cornell’s favor, 
Michigan had two men on bases and two out, when our 
adorable brother w^ent to bat and knocked the ball over the 
fence and tied the score; then they won the game in the tenth 
inning. Rah! Rah! Rah! They are looking for the ball 
still, I believe. Just then the telephone rang and I rec- 
ognized the voice of my daughter who was spending the 
day with Josie Hastings. 

“Mother,” she said, “I called up to say that I won’t 
be home to dinner or all night as Josephine is having a little 
birthday dinner this evening and I am going to help her re- 
ceive and we’ll send Morton up for my best white dress and 
slippers — good-bye.” I was so dumbfounded that I was 
speechless for about ten minutes and then I had a little talk 
with my child, by wire, in which I told her that as all plans 
had been made I would allow her to remain but in the future 
I would prefer to be consulted as to her program and not 
merely acquainted with the perfected arrangements. She 
was quite cool and likewise “sot” and after a few words 
with Roxane who was as amused as I, I fell to pondering on 
the subject with which I began this letter, my consternation 
being furthered by the other little experience, the second 
one, with my son. He does not seem to outgrow his passion 
for jumping on beds despite all my admonitions and repeated 
punishments. Finding him leaping skyward again today 
from the unusually springy mattress in the guest room, I de- 
livered a long and serious lecture on the enormity of the 
crime he was committing, the frightful cost of springs and 
bedding in general and laid particular stress on the fact of 
his absolute disregard of my wishes. He was balancing on 


[ 44 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


the foot of the bed during the course of my speech and as 
I was drawing it to a close he turned a wonderful backward 
somersault. 

“Fade away, mother,” he said, without a suspicion of a 
smile, “fade away, my ears are tired.” I beat a hasty retreat 
and sat down to think it over. There’s no use, Virginia. I 
will sew for them and work for them but Garry will have to 
do the “bringing up,” I can’t. It reminded me of Loring’s 
pet story of the school teacher and the young incorrigible 
and the impression that she did not make. You remember 
how she finally cornered him and talked long and earnestly 
about his manifold faults and wickedness, and observing that 
he seemed so very attentive and had not taken his eyes from 
her face, she felt that she had won the day. I can imagine 
her state of mind when he drawled slowly, “Why, it’s your 
lower jaw that moves, ain’t it?” 

Anne gave an “initiation” dinner for the Grangers last 
night and Marshall responded to Richard’s address of wel- 
come to the “colony” by relating a little conversation that 
he had with Mrs. Haynes, the woman with whom he and 
Connie boarded the first week of their stay in Stormfield — 
until their house was ready. 

“She painted a most lurid picture of the disgraceful “do- 
ings” down in this part of the town,” he said, “recounting 
numerous tales of kimona and pajama parties, midnight sup- 
pers and affinity dinners, gambling orgies and moonlight 
revels participated in by the “Stranded Aristocracy” of 
“Jingle End,” as she called it. ‘Far be it from me to say 
anything bad of anyone or to repeat a word of scandal, Mr. 
Granger,’ ” mimicked Marshall, “ ‘but you don’t want to get 
in with that “bunch” — there are plenty of others to go with 
and Mis’ Granger — she seems such a lady.’ ” 

“Well, from your interesting description, Mrs. Haynes, 
I’m rather inclined to think that that’s the “bunch” we do 
want to get in with — they certainly sound good to me,” 
Marshall answered. Chorus, “Bully for you!” 

“Did she faint on the spot or go up stairs and swoon?” 
asked the master of Fenway. 

“She did neither,” said Marshall, “but turned green with 
envy when I told her that we had known the Brinkerhoffs 
for years and already had our passports.” 

Tonight is the hayrack ride and corn roast at the beach 
and we are anticipating lots of fun. We are going to roast 


[ 45 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Weiners and marsh-mellows (digestible combination) and 
take large hampers of sandwiches, fried cakes, rolls and 
fruit and the Tennant coffee pot which I am sure is the larg- 
est in the world. The men are going to take their bathing 
suits but we girls are quite content to confine our sporting 
in the waves to the garish light of day — no moonlight effects 
or ice baths for us, thank you. The Vales aren’t going for 
Ned won’t leave that baby — his fatherhood is wonderful and 
the most potent factor in his makeup. 

Bob Thornton took such a cunning picture of Phil and 
Nancy and the second Donnelly yesterday — he is scarcely 
ever parted from his camera and takes some marvelous pic- 
tures. The nicest thing about Bob is his handshake, a per- 
fectly wonderful grip, the strong, firm sort, that gives you 
assurance and makes you feel welcome and human and of 
some importance; quite the reverse of the jelly fish clasp that 
one so often comes in contact with and that makes one’s 
whole spinal column collapse instantly. 

I almost neglected to tell you that Betty VanClief and 
Jerry are to be married September 4th — they are hurrying 
things up a bit because Lucie Horton, who is to be maid of 
honor has to return to New Orleans sooner than she expected. 
Rachel has been down stairs at the piano for the last half 
hour and has presented a most delightful program. But 
she is now playing Chopin’s funeral march, by request, and 
I shall go mad if she doesn’t stop. Garry loves it and just 
came in a few minutes ago and demanded it. I wish she 
would sing the “Rosary” but I don’t dare ask her again, 
for I did once and she said that she never sang it for ^any- 
one; it is always on her piano, however. 

The field at the side of the house is a joy and delight — 
pink clover and buttercups run riot there while the big 
Kauffmann corn field with it’s tall waving stalks makes a 
most fitting back-ground. The golden-rod is in full bloom, 
too; I must go out this minute and gather an armful for the 
veranda. 


August 19. 

This is the kind of weather that makes me feel amiably 
disposed towards everybody; a succession of perfect days, 
beautifully warm but not sultry, little showers every now 
and then that lay the dust and every field and garden flaunt- 
ing itself in a gorgeous array of colors. 


[ 46 ] 


A Dear Old Road '’—Page 40 


















A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Rachel has captivated everyone and when she is not with 
us we all spend most of our time wildly conjecturing as to 
the reason for her hermit’s existence. Bruce thinks she is 
a religious fanatic and is doing penance for imaginary sins 
while Garry advances the theory that she’s paying up a bet — 
says she shows her sporting blood by being such a trump 
and she’ll be game to the finish. 

Bob Thornton is sure she’s been jilted and is dying of a 
broken heart but Lennie Watson says she’s a great actress 
in disguise, studying some part and will electrify the entire 
world when she bursts forth again. 

But I know better, Virginia, they are all wrong; there 
is something deeper than a whim back of it all, some big 
vital problem that has come into her life and she is facing 
it alone and trying to get her mental bearings in the mean- 
time. I spent yesterday at Lotus Cottage and was so happy 
with my Rachel. It was a soft, lazy day and almost hot 
enough to suit me — we passed the hours under the trees 
and paddling about on the little toy lake and the time went 
all too quickly. I made bold enough to ask Rachel the signi- 
ficance of the inscription over her door and she told me that 
she picked it up in a shop in Chicago on her way here and 
that it meant nothing absolutely so far as she was con- 
cerned — she simply took a fancy to the quaint lettering. Of 
course, that is not so and she was simply trying to evade 
the question but ‘all’s fair in love and war’ and this is both. 
There is also a withered spray of lotus blossom in a slender 
Teco jar on the stone mantle piece. She is courting forget- 
fulness, that is certain, but I fear me she will have to pay 
more fervent court to the elusive jade if she wants to win 
her, for that troublesome meddler, Memory, is always at 
hand to bewilder the suitor in such a wooing. I took particu- 
lar notice of the few books that she has; you say that you 
can nearly always determine a person’s mentality by the 
books he has about him. Now what do you conclude from 
this collection? 

David Copperfield, Adam Bede, A much worn “Emerson,” 
Twelfth Night, As You Like It, Romeo & Juliet, Scarlet Let- 
ter, Wood Carver of ’Lympus, Little Women, Eugene Field’s 
Poems, Kirkham’s “Ministry of Beauty,” John Halifax, A 
Ragged “Browning,” Garden of Allah, The Luxury of Chil- 
dren, Bird’s Christmas Carol, Vanity Fair, and Does God 
Send Trouble? 


[ 47 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


The last is an exquisite thing if one could believe it all. 
Quite a human collection, methinks, and, O, I forgot — The 
Lades Home Journal was likewise lying carelessly on the 
table; positively if I ever get to Mars or Jupiter by aeroplane 
I fully expect to find The Ladies Home Journal in every 
house I enter. 

Her only pictures are a fine Corot, Taylor’s beautiful 
“Hanging of the Crane,” and Ferruzzi’s “Madonna of the 
Streets.” Rachel says she loves it because the mother looks 
so human and the baby seems so real. She is passionately 
fond of children and shows it in a thousand little ways. 
There are no photographs in sight and the only thing on the 
wall in her bed room is a little Scotch stanza, in a plain 
rosewood frame, which I memorized: 

“When the song^s gone out o’ gour life, 
you can^t start another while Ws a 
ringin* in your ears; ^tis best to have a 
bit o’ silence and out o’ that, maybe, a 
psalm will come bye and bye” 

Isn’t it lovely? and quite significant, also, I think. She 
is very psychic and feels things even before they are said 
or done. She is also extremely sensitive to personalities and 
to things material, the one thing that keeps her from going 
to pieces being a saving sense of humor, one of her most 
potent characteristics. We agree on really very few subjects 
and almost came to blows yesterday, we got into such a dis- 
cussion about all concerning the psychic and the occult. 
I’m a rank fatalist, you know, and yesterday was expound- 
ing upon my ideas of the future and got more than I bar- 
gained for. 

“But, my dear,” protested Rachel, “you can’t be a fatalist 
as you profess to be and yet believe in the doctrine of evolu- 
tion for they are diametrically opposed to one another, you 
know.” 

“But I can be, for I do,” I declared, wildly, bewildered 
at the manner in which my ideas were being rent asunder, 
“I most certainly do not think that death is the end, for I 
won’t believe that a thinking mind and soul can be snuffed 
out like a candle, and yet I also firmly believe that we are 
nothing but puppets and are moved by the hand of destiny 
across the checker board of life.” 


[ 48 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“That is both ridiculous and inconsistent,” Rachel inter- 
posed, “Now I know that T am the Captain of my soul, I am 
the master of my fate’ — why, Nancy dear, we all of us con- 
trol our movements, hold destiny in the hollow of our hand.” 

“O, do we?” I snapped, “then perhaps you’ll tell me 
why, when we have planned to do a certain thing at a given 
time, we will find ourselves gently but firmly guided in an 
opposite direction and subsequent events invariably prove 
that the deviation from our original intent was all for the 
best. Maybe the train we intended to take vvdll have been 
wrecked or the boat we meant to sail on, go down, and it’s 
the same every day of our lives; how often you hear people 
say; ‘Well, if anyone had told me a few hours ago that I 
would be here now, I would have scouted the idea — I had 
planned to do thus and so.’ “Now what does that prove?” I 
concluded triumphantly. 

‘ Nothing whatever to me,” declared Rachel, promptly, 
“and Nancy, dear, I have never said or given the impression 
that I thought that death ended it all, for if I did think so 
and believed that the grave drowned our sorrows, I wouldn’t 
be here.” (I wish you might have heard her say that, Vir- 
ginia) “O, I most certainly believe that we control events,” 
she resumed. 

“Well, I can’t agree with you about that, Rachel; I can’t 
believe that we poor weaklings have the power to control 
circumstances or events in the least degree — though I do 
think that we are able to control the manner in which they 
affect us,” I conceded — “but there it ends.” 

“Nancy,” asked Rachel, “do you really think that God 
sends sorrow and trouble to us and tortures us almost beyond 
endurance — the dear, all-powerful God who Himself is Love? 
O, Nancy,” she cried, appealingly, “don’t say that you believe 
He would willingly send trials and tribulations and awful ac- 
cidents and death and sickness. Do you believe, for instance, 
that He would take a baby from it’s mother, just to torture 
her?” 

“Well, if He’s all-powerful, why doesn’t He prevent all 
those awful things?” I asked stubbornly, and then blushed 
for shame at such a confession of sacreligious disloyalty, and 
realizing at the same time that I was getting in pretty deep. 

“Because, dear,” she said quietly, as the sun sank lower 
in the western sky — “because the devil — the evil influence 
that permeated even the Garden of Eden, is almost more 


[ 49 ] 


A BIT (T SILENCE 


powerful than Divine Love and all that God can do for us 
is to guide us in the right direction by the beacon of His 
Love and trust to our own sense of right to resist the tempta- 
tions that beset our path and come eventually into the shelter 
of His welcoming arms/’ 

I said nothing, silenced by the obviousness and lucidity 
of her answer, but sat quietly drinking in the beauty of the 
sun’s rays on the water. 

“And then think,” I said finally, “of the little things, a 
look or a word that can either make or mar a human life — 
they must have been intended and a part of the Great Plan.” 

“Even so,” said Rachel, “how do you account for the fact 
that some lives are all sunshine and happiness while others 
are made up wholly of misery and sorrow?” 

“The Law of Compensation,” I replied, complacently, 
“we’ll get all that’s coming to us in the other world if we 
don’t in this, and, too, we may have had more than our share 
of both or either in a former incarnation.” 

“So you likewise believe in the transmigration of souls,” 
Rachel stated with a touch of irony in her tone, “really, for 
such a little thing as you are, Nancy, you carry around an 
awful burden of beliefs, and, may I ask,” she inquired bland- 
ly, “what theory or reason do you advance for the same?” 

“Theory — reason — piffle — ” I said, crossly, “I never know 
why I believe anything, I just do, that’s all — now, Rachel, 
dear, don’t get like Charley Geers” — cousin Karl’s friend, you 
know — “he invariably has a reason for everything he does 
and says and is the most uninteresting creature in existence 
— he always reminds me of Grape-Nuts and Postum Cereal.” 

“And anyway, what a waste of time it is to discuss the 
question,” I concluded wearily, “it’s a thing that philosophers 
and deep thinkers of all ages have been pondering for cen- 
turies and they’re just exactly where they were a thousand 
years ago. If the dear Lord meant us to know anything 
more than we do about this perplexing existence or what is 
to follow it. He would have told us long before this.” 

“Very true,” said Rachel, and with her eyes fastened on 
the distant hills, she quoted softly those exquisite lines from 
the Rubaiyat. 

Strange, is it not, that of the myriads who 
Before us pass’d the door of darkness through; 

Not one returns to tell us of the road, 

Which, to discover, we must travel too.” 


[ 50 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


At this juncture the tall shadows of Garry and Bruce ap- 
peared through a break in the trees and were a welcome 
sight. 

“Come on in, the water’s fine,” I called to them, “we 
have been dipping in the ocean of philosophy and are now 
pulling for the shore as we got beyond our depth and nearly 
floundered.” 

“Well, we’ve got some life preservers in the shape of 
some bully ice cream cones,” said Bruce, “we bought them 
over there at the athletic field where a small boy was sell- 
ing them faster than he could take in the coin.” 

“Yes, and the crowd was evincing more interest in the 
cones than in the game,” disgustedly remarked Garry; to 
whom a good ball game is the highest form of art. 

September 5. 

What is there about the wedding march from Lohengrin 
that makes one want to laugh and weep and shiver and 
thrill at one and the same time? It always seems to have that 
influence and last night at the wedding I was more affected 
than ever before. Little sister was a dainty and beautiful 
bride and made a charming picture as she graciously re- 
ceived the guests, standing beside her nice-looking husband 
and trying to act unconscious of the shining new wedding 
ring on her finger. Jerry is just fine and I know they’ll be 
happy as larks. Betty was even prettier when she went 
away — a symphony in royal blue with a perfectly howling 
hat. The gifts were beautiful and all seemed to express 
much loving thought and exquisite taste — save one. For 
what did Jerry’s office force send but a white plaster lion 
over four feet in length — rampant on a huge pedestal — the 
latter bearing the names of the entire force scratched in ink. 
Betty simply had to display it with the other gifts for the 
people from the office were invited and honestly I thought 
we’d burst trying to keep from laughing out loud, for fear 
some of the donors might be at our elbows. It looked for all 
the world like a full grown pony or St. Bernard dog, if there 
could be such a thing as a white one. 

Jerry said on the quiet that they’d have to build a kennel 
for Mark — as they call it — but Garry told them it would have 
to be a full sized stable or nothing. 

Last Thursday we all went to the Stormfield fair where 
we spent several hours and thirteen dollars and had the time 


[ 51 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


of our lives. We’d never been to a county fair before and 
Garry says he will never go to one again, but it sure was a 
circus. The day was sweltering but just the kind for a fair 
and it was such fun wending our way in and out through 
the crowds and listening to the fakirs and spielers calling 
their wares, the medley of sights and sounds bewildering to 
be sure but the whole panorama unusually attractive. Nancy 
and Philip were speechless with delight over the mid-way, 
their chief joy being the merry-go-round, of course, and a 
vile concoction called the ocean wave — the most sea-sick con- 
trivance ever contrived. Garry said that the only good thing 
was the ball game but I had a leaning toward the dozens of 
cheap lunch counters and parted with most of my money in 
exchange for their delicatessen — Elizabeth Watson and I 
fairly haunted the awful looking stands and devoured hot 
dog sandwiches and circus lemonade ravenously but some- 
how couldn’t seem to persuade the others that we were en- 
joying ourselves. Kate Watson says that she often wonders 
if she will ever arrive at that stage of hunger where she 
could be induced to eat a hot dog sandwich, but Elizabeth 
and I tell her that she’s missing half of her life wondering. 
The thing that interested me most in the Woman’s Build- 
ing was the exhibit of antiques, some of them being of in- 
credible age and marvelously interesting while others were 
fakes of the first water but none the less interesting never- 
theless. One smart woman entered an old beaded bed-room 
slipper and tagged it as “a sandal worn by the Sultan’s 
favorite in a turkish harem.” Needless to say it won first 
premium. Husband began to get real peevish and low in 
his mind towards dusk so dragged us forcibly homeward 
while we still had car fare left but I was entranced by the 
whole thing and am going every day next year. I tell Garry 
that I’ll put him in as an antique if he doesn’t improve as 
regards cold-water throwing by that time but he says that 
he’ll exhibit me as the wild woman of Borneo and so we’re 
quits. 

We’ve persuaded Rachel to have a telephone put in and 
we’re much relieved about her — really, I couldn’t bear the 
thought of her being up there alone with winter coming 
on and no means of communication with the town, except 
on foot. Of course the faithful Melia is on guard all the 
time but it’s not quite the same, you know. Melia told me 
the other day that she was so grateful to us all for our kind- 


[ 52 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


ness to Miss Rachel. She said that her dear mistress was 
getting very melancholy and worrying her considerably just 
when we appeared upon the scene and she considers it the 
direct hand of Providence. I try to pump Melia on every 
possible occasion but there’s nothing doing; she’s a perfect 
clam in regard to all that pertains to Rachel but when the 
psycological moment arrives for her to speak she will do 
so and that’s as true as my name is Nancy. 

The Colts are back from their honeymoon and fill the 
void left by the Kendricks most satisfactorily; little bride is 
just the kind I like and the doctor is fine. I had to call him 
the other day when Nancy fell over the veranda railing and 
split her head open about four inches, and he appealed to me 
on the spot — perfectly dear with children and the kind who 
gives one a feeling of confidence the moment he enters the 
room. Nancy is alright but will have to be swathed in band- 
ages — turban effect — for some time and she is anything but 
pleased at the prospect. 

‘Tt simply spoils my looks,” she remarked yesterday, in 
a most discouraged tone, as she turned from a ten-minutes’ 
survey of herself in the mirror. I never heard of any other 
children having as many bumps and tumbles as mine do; 
really it’s continuous vaudeville here all the time. I believe 
I will have to follow Roberta Lane’s example and beat them 
if they are not more careful. Truly, she had to spank her 
Marjorie finally for the child fell down stairs and up stairs 
and into things and out of things until Roberta decided that 
it was pure “carlness” and that a gentle reminder in the 
way of a whack occasionally might assist matters materially. 
You know falling up stairs has always been Loring’s long 
suit and he still does it — at twenty-three. I invariably know 
that he’s coming when I bear that crash — bang half way up. 
He was here over night Sunday (I told you I expected him) 
on his way back to college from Cobalt. He’s handsomer 
than ever and the girls were crazy about him. He said that 
he wished that he might have visited both of his adorable 
sisters at the same time; it’s too bad that you’re so far away. 
He will be here for a week in January after the mid-year 
exams and I am going to have a house party out from town 
for him for the Library Ball. Rachel said yesterday that 
she is going to have some sort of a party soon at her shack — 
she feels so indebted to us all and says that we certainly 
saved her reason by coming into her life just when we did. 


[ 53 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


She has two or three unique ideas and I know she can work 
them out. 

Bob Thornton came out on the late train with us last 
night and showed us a perfectly lovely snap-shot of Patty 
and Anne that he had taken Sunday morning. 

‘T was making the short cut through from Sally’s” he 
explained, “and discovered two American beauties in the 
Tennant garden and, being a natural born “snitcher,” I 
plucked them with my camera.” 

“A full-blown rose and a bud, as it were” said I, looking 
over his shoulder. “Bob, you’re a wonder in the camera 
line.” 

“Well, who wouldn’t be, with such subjects” remarked 
Garry, in an injured tone, his admiration for the Tennant 
family individually and collectively, being paramount. 

The teacher of Gilbert dancing arrived yesterday and is 
at Kate Watson’s for the winter (in Buttercup Cottage there 
is always room for one more); she is a Miss Knowles from 
Harrisburg and a girl of undoubted charm. 

By the way. I’ve learned to stencil — aren’t you impressed? 
Esther Lane initiated me into the dark secret and I’ve stencil- 
ed everything in sight — curtains, table-runners, dresser 
covers and a thousand other things. Garry wants to know 
if I’ve decided on the design that I’m going to stencil the 
children. 

We like the Grangers immensely and it seems as if we 
had known them always. Marshall is qaint and clever and 
has the drollest way of talking but needs a hair cut badly; 
Constance is very pretty and stylish but not madly infatu- 
ated with the cares of housekeeping but she is a girl who 
has always been waited upon and consequently doesn’t 
know much about the beauty of honest toil. She has charm- 
ing manners and is accomplished in so many little ways and 
can make positively the best salads that anyone could 
imagine, Gilbertine and her domestic science not excepted. 

September 18. 

I have neglected you shamefully for the last week or 
two, Virginia dear, but my time has been so taken up as- 
sisting at births, deaths and church suppers that I was forced 
to give my pen a much needed rest. I am more than glad 
that you so enjoy hearing about all the people here for I 
certainly love to write about them and I do it with good 


[ 54 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


grace for I adore writing above all things and by assuring 
myself repeatedly that my dear sister is lonesome away 
down east and her time completely taken up with her young 
baby, I make peace with my conscience and let many neces- 
sary things go flying while I wield my pen fast and furious- 
ly. To think that our Betsey Jane is sitting up alone! Isn’t 
it wonderful! What an indescribable joy a baby is anyway 
and how momentous every little milestone along the way. 
The first smile, the first tooth, the first step and the first 
word! O, that first smile, that knowing smile that a baby 
gives to it’s mother alone! If I live to be a hundred I will 
never forget the smile that Nancy smiled at me when she 
realized for the first time that I was her mother and there- 
fore entirely different and apart from every other human 
being in the world. 

We’ve had a series of wonderful mellow days but this 
morning the sky presented a leaden and grief-stricken face 
to our disappointed vision and has wept copiously for hours. 

Nancy and Phil just revel in this country life and atmos- 
phere and are perfect roly-polys and happy as larks all day 
long. Kate Watson calls them the “Campbell Kids” and 
they shriek with delight at the appellation and certainly 
look the part. 

Our church supper was not a success from a financial 
point of view but was decidedly so as a vaudeville perform- 
ance. So few attend as a rule that many women who had 
half promised donations didn’t send them, thinking that, as 
usual, the supply would greatly exceed the demand. But, 
my word, Virginia, the people came in droves — they ap- 
proached on horse-back, in carriages and in automobiles, an 
unprecedented occurence in the annals of the church. They 
hustled in and began taking their places at the long tables 
and we of the provision committee almost gave up the ghost 
for there were lots of strangers who had come over from 
their lake shore homes for a final frolic before going back 
to town. 

“Heavens above, girls,” shrieked Rosamond Thornton, 
“the woods are full of them, and still they come, what on 
earth are we going to do?” and she hastily scanned the 
meagre array of baked beans, cold meat and potato salad 
with a wild look in her eye. 

“Do?” echoed Mrs. Edwards, the ruling spirit, “we’re 
going to feed them, of course, that’s what we’re here for. 


[ 55 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Rita,” she commanded to the pretty Marston girl who, in 
fluffy gown and apron, stood ready to serve the multitude. 
“Rita, I appoint you chairman of the looting committee and 
do you go out this minute and see what you can collect in 
the way of cooked food from the neighbors’ dinner tables — 
go in and get some of the men to help you and take anything 
that’s ready to serve — hurry!” 

Margarita, with Garry and Bob Thornton in her wake, 
dashed out the door to do her superior’s bidding while we 
all flew about in various directions, praying that the parish- 
ioners had been well fed before they came. 

“Keep them talking in there, girls,” ordered the portly 
Mrs. Walton, “and couldn’t somebody play or sing or do 
something to keep them amused while we portion out the 
food?” 

Rachel and Martin Brinkerhoff rose to the occasion and 
took turns* dashing off divers popular airs on the unspeak- 
able square piano. 

“I knew there was some good reason for my wanting 
Rachel to come,” I said to Garry, who entered bearing aloft 
a large tray of appetizing food, secured from neighboring 
larders, “just hear her playing ‘Glow Worm’ in there; you 
can fairly see the little lights gleaming and sparkling in the 
darkness; when Rachel plays, even on that awful piano, 
people don’t care if they never eat again, they are so en- 
tranced.” 

Well, talk about the miracle of the loaves and fishes — it 
wasn’t a circumstance to this. We seemed to evolve food 
out of the infinite and everybody had more than enough. 
Garry and Bob had us in a perfect gale of merriment re- 
counting the manner in which they begged food from the 
various houses; but everybody, regardless of creed, entered 
into the spirit of the thing and came to the front with ready 
relief, another proof of Stormfield’s abounding friendship. 

“The booming committee certainly did their duty with 
a vengeance,” remarked Rosamond, filling a tray for the 
fifty-seventh time. 

“Yes, not wisely but too well,” said Rita, “I’m ready to 
drop in my tracks this minute.” 

It turned out all right anyway and none of the strangers 
will ever be the wiser probably, although I heard one man 
ask if they had a separate menu for each one. Variety was 
the word, believe me! 


[ 56 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


The people out here think Fm queer because I don’t go 
into town oftener but I can’t see the point in trapesing in 
every week or so when I have a perfectly good husband to 
do my errands for me and really Garry is developing into a 
most remarkable shopper and fairly haunts the bargain 
counters. He would be wild if he heard me say that but 
what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him so never mind. 

I must tell you of the Maddigan funeral for it was in a 
class by itself. I’m sure that I have often mentioned Mrs. 
Barney, my laundress, she of the avoirdupois, you know, and 
who thinks that Mrs. Garrett Van Clief is the Alpha and 
Omega and everything in between. Last Monday her poor old 
bed-ridden mother was gathered to her fathers and Mrs. Bar- 
ney, with a tearful but triumphant note in her voice, told me 
that I was to be honored to the extent of riding to the funeral 
on Wednesday A. M. with brother Danny in his buggy while 
she would accompany Jim. They are both in the neighbor- 
hood of forty and hold office in the plumbers’ union. Well, 
my dear, of all the performances I ever took part in! I fear 
me that the twain had imbibed slightly before starting out to 
pay their last respects to their departed parent for they were 
in a perfect tumult of gaiety through which a riotous streak 
of recklessness seemed to filter. Virginia, they raced to the 
cemetery and Danny was consumed with fear that Jim would 
head him off and could hardly be induced to go into the 
little German church for the services. I persuaded him to 
do so, however, assuring him that he would regret his action 
later if he failed to do so, and he unwillingly dragged his 
halting steps up the aisle, his furtive glance on Jim every 
second. The moment the services were over Dan dashed up 
the aisle dragging me with him and into the buggy we hopped 
and fairly flew to the graveyard, Jim lashing his horse close 
behind us and poor grief-stricken Mrs. Barney clutching her 
bonnet with both hands. I was perfectly hysterical through 
it all and frightened nearly out of my senses. Danny won 
as he was bound he would and cast a series of triumphant 
glances at his crestfallen brother, who says he is determined 
to be the victor at the next obsequies. I didn’t get over it 
all day and Garry says firmly that that will be about all 
in the line of sharing my employees’ grief for awhile. 


[ 57 ] 


A BIT (T SILENCE 


Oct. 3. 

It is late afternoon and I have just come from Anne’s 
where I found the polly’s cage covered up, the dogs cowering 
before the fire, the Billiken with his face to the wall and 
Anne physically exhausted for she’s been through a lot this 
morning and it has rained cats and dogs since dawn. 

“Nancy,” she said, when I was leaving, “if you should 
happen to meet any callers headed this way tell them I’m 
dead — will you — say I passed on about an hour ago, the un- 
dertaker’s here now, and there is nothing they can do.” 

It seems that there is a brute of a man down on the Lake 
Road who beats his children unmercifully and has broken the 
arm of one and a leg of another throwing them around while 
his wife and the neighbors are in such deadly terror of him 
that they don’t dare tell or call upon anyone for assistance. 
However, the awful state of affairs leaked out someway but 
the men of the town and an officer of the S. P. C. C. from the 
city didn’t seem able to remedy matters materially. As usual, 
it remained for our Anne to beard the lion in his den and lay 
down the law. She said he fairly cowered before her and 
promised to turn over a new leaf in the future but she has 
her doubts. She managed to get a physician to care for the 
children but the little girl will be lame for life. Think of 
it, Virginia! And the hopeless part of it is that he is not a 
drinking man at all — just a great big vicious creature who 
vents his ugly temper upon his helpless babies. We are going 
to hold an indignation meeting at Anne’s tonight and see what 
can be done. Anne certainly has the courage of her convic- 
tions and wins out every time and is without a doubt one of 
the most remarkable human beings I ever met. She wears 
loads of rings sometimes and the effect is bizarre and odd but 
suits her down to the ground; an old Egyptian scarab, some 
wierd Roman affairs and queer dangly things; she doesn’t al- 
ways wear her wedding ring for she says she gets awfully 
tired of being married to the same man all the time and likes 
to forget it sometimes. We take those remarks with many 
grains of salt, however, for she and Dick are the most de- 
voted creatures imaginable. She has imbued her home with 
her personality also to the fullest extent and it is like no 
other house in Stormfield. One entire wall of her library 
is covered with framed photographs of her friends — her 
rogues gallery, as she calls it — the latest acquisition being a 
group of the VanClief family. I hate groups as a rule but the 


[ 58 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


new one of us is exceedingly artistic and Anne insisted upon 
adding it to her collection. I am mailing you one today. 

Nancy has been standing at the window for some time 
waiting for the sun to appear and she just called out, “O, 
Buddie, come and look at the birds flying around in our 
air.” 

It’s amusing and at the same time beautiful the way every- 
one calls upon Anne for everything. If anyone needs help, 
sympathy or advice they turn to Anne and she’s always ready 
with a helping hand, a loving word or a hearty grip of con- 
gratulation, as the case may be. Why, the other day when I 
was there the station master called up to say that there was 
a panther at the depot in a cage and it needed food and water 
and would she please come and attend to it. Remington, her 
youngest, was demanding his luncheon at the same moment 
but was told to wait while she went to the assistance of the 
poor beast. 

“Nancy, I actually believe there are people in the world 
who think that a panther has no soul,” she declared disgust- 
edly as she flew out of the door in the direction of the station. 
There isn’t anything that she hasn’t done or couldn’t do — 
her versatility is stupendous. I am so anxious to have you 
meet her and also Dick and their four lovely children — not to 
mention all the other dear people — and as for Rachel — really 
I can hardly wait for spring when you say you will come. 

Shirley Tennant is a perfect flower in looks and disposi- 
tion. Anne says that Shirley has never required one word 
of correction in her life. 

I came across a beautiful thing today that I have never 
happened to find before and Anne’s name seemed to stand 
out clearly as I read the lines; 

“What is the secret of your life?” asked Mrs. Browning 
of Charles Kingsley, “tell me, that I may make mine beauti- 
ful too.” He replied, “I had a friend.” 

How many lives have been made fuller and more beau- 
tiful because of Anne’s whole-hearted friendship! 


Oct. 16. 

“This is the strenuous life for fair!” remarked Garry 
last night, or rather, this morning, as we toiled up the steps 
after returning from a bridge party at the Thorntons’ and 
really, we have been circling about in the social whirl until 
we’re fairly dizzy. Rachel’s party was night before last and 


[ 59 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


as she couldn’t attempt much in that shack, she didn’t try 
any conventional stunts but certainly made things interest- 
ing. It was a perfect night — “October’s bright blue weather’’ 
— with a soft, balmy breeze and as we went through the 
woods, the harvest moon came up over the tree tops in a 
yellow blaze of glory that fairly took one’s breath away. 
Rachel had decorated the living room with little bent witches, 
black cats and brownies and Mephistopheles himself leered 
at us from the chimney-piece in a most uncanny fashion; 
the only light came from candles set in huge pumpkins 
which added to the eerie effect in a most fascinating manner. 
The first thing on the program was a peanut hunt and we 
were warned not to eat the peanuts as we would find a 
use for them later. Bruce and Patty found the most and 
were perfect pigs and I discovered Anne and Garry dividing 
up so each would have an equal amount. Jack Colt remem- 
bered that he had a bag of stale ones in his raincoat pocket 
and wanted to get them to help swell his meagre supply 
but his conscientious little wife drew the line at that. We did 
the craziest things all evening — played “follow-the-leader” 
all through the woods and paddled around the pond in 
Rachel’s canoe in the moonlight. Verily “there was a sound 
of revelry by night” and the leaves and branches seemed 
to twitter and shake as if in perfect sympathy with our 
merry mood. Bruce and Gilbertine were the only dignified 
beings present and played double Canfield in a corner on 
the floor for hours. I honestly think that he is terribly in- 
terested in her and that his seeming passion for Rachel is 
simply the infatuation of a very young man for an older 
woman — they all pass through that stage, you know; why a 
certain dear boy was madly in love with me two years ago 
but came through it with flying colors and we’ve laughed 
about it many times since. Garry says I’m wrong about 
Bruce and that he is more than infatuated with the mysteri- 
ous Mrs. Bradley, but we’ll see. 

Ned Vale and Kate Watson ran a Marathon around the 
pond and Kate lost a perfectly good French heeled slipper on 
the home stretch but recovered it later after Bob Thornton 
had persuaded every one of the girls to try it on, Cinderella 
fashion, saying that he was looking for a fitting mate with 
whom to share his name and fortune as Rosamond’s endear- 
ing young charms were swiftly fading. When Melia pro- 
nounced the magic word “supper,” we were conducted to the 


[ 60 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


little kitchen which was the cunningest thing I ever saw; 
they had it arranged like a little lunch-shop, two long coun- 
ters covered with oilcloth and Melia and Rachel and Patty 
in white chefs’ caps and aprons sold the food for which we 
paid in peanuts, each one representing a penny. All around 
the room were signs — (I knew then why Garry and Bruce 
sneaked off to Lotus Cottage Monday night with pens and 
card-board and India ink) — telling us to “come early and 
avoid the rush” and “The Lord helps those who help them- 
selves,” etc. Also, 

Coffee, 5 cents. Doughnuts, 2 cents. Pie, 5 cents. Cider, 
3 cents. Hot Dogs, 2 cents. Cookies, 2 cents. Sandwiches, 
5 cents, and so forth, and really, of all the howling and 
shrieking and grabbing I ever saw that was the worst ! Such 
fun and such good food! Grand pumpkin pie and home- 
made cookies and fried cakes. We ate with our fingers and 
helped ourselves to everything in sight. 

“ ‘That was the most unkindest cut of all’ ”, remarked 
Bruce mournfully as Garry sliced off nearly the whole of 
the last pumpkin pie, leaving but a tiny slim for him. 

“I know it, Mac,” mumbled my gluttonous husband with 
his mouth full, “but, honest to goodness, this is almost as 
good as Grandmother’s.” 

“Nancy, how do you stand that continual harping of 
Garry’s on the excellence of his grandmother’s cooking?” 
asked Kate, “it would drive me to distraction.” 

‘Well, I don’t exactly dote on it,” I answered; *‘you know, 
when we were married. Mother Van told me that I would 
never be annoyed by hearing Garry rave about the things 
that ‘mother used to make’ for she always loathed the 
kitchen end of housekeeping and kept well away from it, so 
I smiled serenely, never dreaming that Grandmother Bur- 
well’s culinary triumphs were going to be hurled at me day 
and night; but really, girls,” I concluded, “when it comes to 
anything in the cooking line, sh^ certainly takes the cake.” 

“And makes it, too,” was Garry’s parting shot and I had 
to grin and bear it. 

I thought it dear of Rachel to do all that for us, for while 
she apparently enters into everything with zest and inter- 
est, in reality her heart is as heavy as lead and in spirit she’s 
a thousand miles away from us all every hour of the day 
and night. We must certainly all do our best to make things 
pleasant and cheerful for her if we can. After supper Mar- 


[ 61 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


cia Norrington read our palms and told our fortunes with 
wonderful cards by the light of the big gold moon; she’s a 
perfect wizard at it and makes you feel all creepy and curly 
inside. She told me that I was going to be the cause of an 
international scandal, and the excitement was intense. A 
German Prince is to come over and fall before my manifold 
charms and I’m going to desert my family and flee with him. 
She assured me that he will have boundless wealth and an 
incurable disease and that I can go back to husband after 
the death of affinity with the money in huge sacks. I told 
her that the financial part of the thing appealed to me 
strongly and that I knew that Garry would welcome his 
prodigal spouse with open arms if accompanied by a large 
enough roll of greenbacks but that unless she could make the 
Prince Italian or French I’d have to decline with thanks as 
I never could stand for the blonde mustache with long curl- 
ing, waxed ends that was inevitable where a German Prince 
was concerned. Rachel sang for us before we left and I’ll 
never forget it — such a voice! She certainly has lived and 
loved and suffered and is a wife and a mother , I am sure. 

Do you remember how Madame Shuman-Heink answered 
the man who brought his promising pupil to her for her 
verdict? 

“Cannot she sing?” he asked with pride as the woman 
finished warbling her song in a perfectly trained and modu- 
lated voice. 

“Yes, she can sing,” answered the marvelous Shuman- 
Heink, “she can sing, but she has no soul; 1 think she has no 
babies.” Oct. 24. 

My birthday! Verily, I’m getting on in the world and 
before many more years I will be thirty; however, I haven’t 
the slightest intention of ever being one day over eighteen as 
regards feelings and enthusiasm so what difference will a 
few birthdays more or less make? Many thanks for the silk 
stockings which came yesterday, together with some from 
Coring and a box of the same from Dad — I’m getting the 
family well trained in regard to suitable gifts, I see. To- 
night is the harvest festival at Fenway Farm and I know 
we will have a beautiful time. It’s the annual party that 
Roberta and Ed give every fall and no one ever stays away 
unless they are unfortunate enough to have missed out on the 
invitations, have not been sufficiently urged or properly ap- 
proached, in other words. I shall wear my white liberty 


[ 62 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


satin with the rose point, and we are all going to powder 
our hair. Rachel has consented to go and is coming here 
to dinner first — I have asked Bruce McCrea too, because I 
like even numbers, don’t you know. Rachel went to town 
the other day to buy something suitable to wear for she has 
nothing in her wardrobe that seemed quite grand enough to 
her, we have all talked so much about it. 

Natalie and Elise are back in town and came out yester- 
day. I took them up to Rachel’s and they were charmed 
with her as I knew they would be, in spite of the fact that it 
was one of her bitter days — as I call them; she gets moody 
and cynical and bitter once in a while and the stubborn side 
of her disposition is the dominant note. Natalie said she 
thought it so remarkable that Rachel and I knew each other 
so well and were such fast friends in so short a time. Un- 
seeing creature ! As if time has anything to do with it — it’s 
simply mental telepathy and the call of one soul to another 
and neither time nor season has any influence upon it. It’s 
one of those instantaneous enlightening visions into another’s 
soul that frequently occur and are all as much a part of the 
universal plan as the setting of the sun. You know, so many 
believe that love is merely a matter of propinquity and that 
two people who are constantly thrown together must neces- 
sarily become interested in each other and, if they are of dif- 
ferent sex, the interest invariably leads to deeper things. 
Now I can’t see it that way at all; I think that it’s a subtle 
and unseen sympathy that draws people together and that 
environment has nothing to do with it. I could live in the 
same house for years with some people and not even know 
they were there (nor would they be aware of my presence, 
most likely) for it’s all temperamental and we simply can’t 
force ourselves to care for people. I remember hearing 
someone say years ago — in speaking of cousin Blanche — “One 
could know Mrs. Alden very well for twenty years and yet 
never get beyond that smile of hers.’"’ 

Rosamond ran in and lunched with me yesterday, and 
we talked of scarcely anything but the bright sayings of our 
hopefuls — a little way that mothers have, you know. 

“But the most amusing thing that Bobbie has said in many 
a day,” remarked his fond parent, breaking into my mono- 
logue by main force, “was his answer to my query, when he 
returned from Sunday school last Sunday; though Bob and 
I are not of the large persuasion of ‘Xtian Scientists’ ”, she 


[ 63 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


said, “our offspring have imbibed the spirit of the thing from 
hearing it discussed and seeing it practiced by Frances, Kate 
and Roberta, and have a right neat idea of it. ‘What was 
the golden text. Precious?* I asked my Angel Child, as I re- 
moved his hat and kissed his freckled face. Bobbie looked 
perplexed for a brief second, then his brow cleared, ‘O, I re- 
member,’ he answered, in his cunning drawl, ‘it was “On- 
ward Christian Science” and we sang it like a song.* ” 

We are planning to go into town to Toots Presby’s wed- 
ding Saturday night; it seems like an awful effort to me but 
Garry is an old friend of Lee’s and then we’ll have the joy 
of staying at Aunt Charlotte’s all night. You know Toots 
has often said that three things that do not appeal to her are 
babies, flowers and music! Charming wife she’ll make for 
Leland, will she not? Yes, she will not. 

Sylvia Eastman, a niece of Kate Watson’s has come to 
stay with them for an indefinite period; she’s a dainty little 
brunette and has more attention already than most girls 
have in three seasons. Apropos of nothing, I have a new 
black velvet dress that’s simply howling — mother donated 
the material and I made the dress, as usual. Rip Van 
Winkle was a lucky man but not half as lucky as Garry. 
Really, he has never seen a dress-maker’s bill I am certain. 
But he says I’ve got to stop this outshining Paquin or 
people will think he’s been robbing a bank or something but 
everybody knows how accomplished I am so it’s all right. 
There is nothing like having a good opinion of one’s self 
is there? But it’s the only thing I can do, really; I can’t 
play the piano or do any parlor tricks at all and last night 
I felt my shortcomings keenly for Anne and Dick were here 
and I was trying to be entertaining. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Nancy, if you love me stop that 
drumming,” shrieked Garry with his fingers in his ears, “as 
long as you can’t play please don’t make such a painful 
effort.” 

Patty has taught me one little piece and I adore playing 
it. I was much hurt but discontinued and a moment later 
burst into song. 

“Another spasm,” said Garry, resignedly. “Nancy, you 
have the sort of voice described by the man at Shea’s last 
week — ‘sounds as though it had been sent for and couldn’t 
come.’ ” 


[ 64 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Sweet of him, wasn’t it — particularly as Bruce and Len- 
nie were even then in the doorway. However, that being 
my husband’s idea of wit, I will have to make the best of it. 

Norah has been away for a week and I divide my time be- 
tween the kitchen, dish pan and carpet sweeper. I expect 
her back this evening and will welcome her with open arms. 

I must now go down and evolve some lunch out of the 
infinite for the children are clamoring for food like veritable 
starving Cubans. 

Later, Have just time for a concluding line before dress- 
ing for the party. Such a night! Not warm but clear and 
sparkling and full of strange, crackly sounds that make 
one think of spooks and elves and fairies. I love that 
thought of Barrie’s — “When the first baby laughed for the 
first time, his laugh broke into a million pieces and they 
all went skipping about — that was the beginning of fairies.” 

I ran up to Esther Lane’s after dinner to tell her that we 
would call for her and I hated to come into the house and 
put my mind on such prosaic things as clothes. I love the 
night always, for that matter. There’s such a soothing balm 
about the darkness, when the day’s candles are out and 
everything is soft and mysterious and full of magic and little 
gleaming lights. Kipling is my favorite poet, but I consider 
Longfellow’s “Hymn to the Night” the most exquisitely har- 
monious thing ever written. Just to think of hearing “the 
trailing garments of the night” fills one with a calm happi- 
ness and it is so comforting to know that no matter what 
we may have had to contend with during the relentless light 
of day, the wonderful darkness is coming to enwrap us in 
it’s protecting mantle. In truth, with the coming of night, 
our manifold cares do “fold their tents like the Arabs and 
as silently steal away.” 


Oct. 26. 

Today is Garry’s birthday, you know, and we had our 
usual celebration yesterday, the day between the two anni- 
versaries. I gave him a beautiful Cluny lace center piece 
that will look stunning on the dining room table and he gave 
me a very handsome (Meerschaum pipe in a nifty little case 
and then we traded presents — isn’t that a unique idea? 

The harvest party at Fenway was a howling success and 
artistic in every detail. Picture to yourself an immense 
room with low raftered ceiling, a roaring fire of logs in the 


[ 65 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


big brick fireplace, old brass and mahogany shining in the 
candle and firelight and festoons of wheat sheaves and 
pumpkin leaves hanging on the walls and you have the 
setting in which Roberta and Ed, dressed as George and 
Martha Washington, greeted their delighted guests, while all 
the servants, with blacked faces, striped dresses and ban- 
dana turbans, flitted about seeing to our every comfort. 
Jean Carson was lovely in pale green chiffon with violets 
while Rachel was exquisite in yellow crepe de chine with 
orchids — sent by Bruce. I had never thought of Rachel as 
being really beautiful before but she certainly was Thursday 
night. Around her dark head she had twined a soft coil of 
yellow chiffon and her eyes were like stars. Sylvia East- 
man was a poem in a little pink dancing frock and two 
sweeter girls than Patty and Gilbertine I never saw. Anne 
wore her one Paris gown and the men were all attired in 
“the conventional black.” Garry is so stunning in his even- 
ing clothes — in fact, all men look one hundred per cent, bet- 
ter in them and will you tell me why they object so stren- 
uously to donning the same? The average man couldn’t 
make more of a fuss if he were being dragged to the elec- 
tric chair. I cannot understand it for you would think 
that their unfailing conceit would win the day but it doesn’t 
in this case. I tell Garry to say nothing but pretend that 
we always dress for dinner and really I would heartily en- 
dorse doing so if he wasn’t always so tired at night. It’s 
one of the few things I do insist upon, however, on all state 
occasions. How would the men like it, think you, if, after 
asking the girls and women to a dance or party, the latter 
appeared in the little gingham dresses they had worn all 
day? Chagrined, to say the least. I do think that we al- 
ways ought to compliment our hostess by looking as well 
as possible for if we don’t care how we look, there are others 
who do. 

“My stars, but everyone is drunken dressed up or 
‘dressed and drunk up,’ as your Phil says,” remarked Bruce 
to me. “Do you know. Nan, I’m mighty glad I wore these 
open face clothes? I wasn’t going to at first but something 
gave me the inspiration.” 

“Well, you’ll wear them first, last and all the time when 
you are out with me in the evening,” I stated sharply and 
all the boys roared, for they simply adore getting me started 
on the subject. 


[ 66 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


There was music and dancing, and bridge, and the realest 
food I ever saw, in immense quantities — a regular country 
supper. 

Dick Tennant and I gave our interpretation of a Spanish 
scarf dance — (I in white satin, entraine) — for the delecta- 
tion of those who weren’t glued to the card tables. 

“For pity’s sake, Anne, look at your Christian husband 
cavorting about with Nancy VanClief,” called Rosamond, 
who happened to be dummy at a bridge table just then, 
“you’ll have to annihilate the woman.” 

“Go thither and get the female imposter, boys,” said Anne, 
“and cast her over the brink of the chasm — she will con- 
taminate my beautiful soul-mate with her snake-like wiles.” 

The jury returned a verdict of “no cause of action,” 
however, and we continued our wild romp. 

Rachel seemed to enjoy herself but looked very sad and 
thoughtful all evening though she stayed until we all went 
so as not to break up the party. I induced her to stay here 
for the night for it seemed hopeless to try to penetrate that 
forest at 3:30 A. M. Bruce hovered about her all evening 
and hung on her every word. Once during the evening, 
when he had an opportunity, he asked me if I believed in 
continuing an engagement of long standing if a man found 
that the girl in the case was no longer first in his affections 
and if I thought that there was such a thing as platonic re- 
lationship. I replied to question No. 1 that it was most un- 
fair for any man to allow a girl to remain engaged to him 
if he no longer “loved” her devotedly and if there was the 
slightest doubt in his mind whether he did or not — why the 
question answered itself — for a man who truly loves a girl 
or a girl who truly loves a man doesn’t have to waste any 
time or thought on the subject. 

To question No. 2 I answered that there was no such 
thing as platonic friendship and if two people considered 
that such a thing existed between them why either one or 
both could not be human. I concluded by telling him to go 
directly home from the party and take a large dose of 
quinine as his conversation savored strongly of the grippe. 
O, dear, I hope nothing tragic will come of all this — I know 
Rachel has a husband. I’m sure of it, and I also know that 
she loves him and is eating her heart to see him but she’s 
the kind that will never show the white feather but will 
fight it out to the bitter end. 


[ 67 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“It’s nothing short of criminal, Ed, for us to eat up all 
this good food,” remarked Bob Thornton at supper, as he 
helped himself to a large slice of rocquefort, “particularly so 
when all this talk about the high cost of living is at its 
height.” 

“Why not use the truer version, the cost of high living,” 
interposed Richard. 

“Pray make no apologies to Ed, my dear,” sniffed Rosa- 
mond, “these Lanes are perfect Rockefellers compared to 
the rest of us — 1 say — make the most of such an opportunity 
and devour; just hand me that forty-cent creamery, will 
you, Anne — that is a luxury.” 

“With pleasure,” said Anne, “if you will kindly pass it on 
to my beautiful husband. ‘A little butter now and then, is 
relished by the best of men,’ she added, drily, “and the Ten- 
nants haven’t seen any for weeks.” 

The party broke up with three cheers for our host and 
hostess and assurances to them both that everybody would 
be right on the job for the next party. I thought I’d fall 
asleep on the way home for I got terribly tired the day before 
making a dress for Beth Mills to wear and I’m not rested 
yet. Beth is a little Rochester girl who is visiting Gilbertine 
and Patty, and Anne Tennant asked me to help get some- 
thing together for Beth to wear to Fenway, as she hadn’t 
brought an evening gown with her. Beth and Patty dashed 
to one of our large emporiums and purchased some white 
mull and I worked like a slave all day Wednesday and by 
Thursday noon had a darling dress ready for little Roches- 
ter. However I was more than glad to do it for Anne is al- 
ways doing lovely things for me and for all of us — her heart 
is as big as the universe, I guess — she’s always doing for 
others and never gives a thought to herself. 

P. S. I wish you could hear Connie Granger’s laugh — 
’tis worth making the trip here just to hear her give vent to 
her mirth. 

November 8. 

I hate the “I told you so” kind but for once I was right. 
Garry and I walked up to Rachel’s last evening and the night 
was so black that we had to carry lanterns and there was 
a swirling eerie wind that made me feel uncanny. While 
Garry and Rachel were in the kitchen making coffee, I 
picked up “The Luxury of Children” (it has always lain on 
a lower shelf of her table under some magazines) and on the 
fly-leaf was this inscription: “Rachel Goodwin Bradley, 


[ 68 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


from her husband, Gerald’s first birthday.” I hastily re- 
placed the book and of course said nothing to the others 
when they came in but what does it mean? I knew she was 
married and I now know there is a baby son, but that 
neither husband nor child is dead, I’m sure. It couldn’t be 
a divorce, could it? O, I won’t even think that, for she has 
not her child with her. No wonder she loves mine so and 
that she had to leave the room the other day when I read 
her a little thing I had written! I’ll write it for you now, 
while I think of it : 

My Portion. 

You who count your treasures o’er 
E’re you close your eyes each night. 

And can number in your store 
Silver, gold and jewels, bright — 

You, perchance, would pity me 
Did you know what is my share; 

I need not a lock and key, 

For I have no sapphires, rare. 

No, nor pearls, nor rubies red. 

Nor rich gems of untold worth. 

God has given me instead 

More than all the wealth of Earth — 

Gifts that set my heart awhirl 
And that bring me endless joy; 

Just a little fair-haired girl! 

And a blue-eyed laughing boy! 

Well, all things come to him who waits so I suppose the 
solution of this will come to us in good time and Rachel will 
receive her reward if she deserves it, and of course she does. 

I handed out a perfectly good dollar to Elizabeth Watson 
yesterday for a raffle ticket, notwithstanding the fact that 
I had many immediate uses for said dollar. But Elizabeth 
spoke so feelingly about the poor protege of hers who does 
such gorgeous Irish crochet and who needed $25.00 so badly, 
and then strengthened her case so materially by waving the 
most exquisite round Irish lace table cloth before my dazzled 
eyes, that I handed over the greenback without further ado. 
They are going to raffle the thing at Elizabeth’s next Tues- 
day (if the police don’t interfere) and please pray that I’m 
the lucky one — my number is twenty-two. Garry says he 
hopes I get it so that we can raffle it again as we need the 
money. Bruce says we’ll be lucky if we don’t get “pinched” 


169 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


but as the Stormfield police force is generally busy in a 
neighboring townlet on Tuesdays I’m not going to worry 
about his being present to put the lid on. 

I never saw a prettier day than today. Why all the 
talk about gray November, I wonder? Out here we have 
had such bright sunny days all this week, the vivid coloring 
of sky and hills and fallen leaves being perfectly superb. 

Constance Granger is positively killing; we were asked to 
Anne’s for luncheon this noon and Connie got out of bed 
just in time to dress and call for me. 

“You get up so beastly early always, Nancy,” she said, 
“why are you so foolish?” 

“There’s nothing foolish about it,” I answered, “It’s a 
case of force — I have so much to do every day.” 

“I know,” she agreed, “but getting up before noon makes 
the day so long and then how do you kill time?” 

“Kill time?” I echoed, laughing, “why, my dear Connie, 
I’ve never yet seen the day that was long enough for me to 
accomplish all that I would like to do.” And I spoke the 
truth. I wonder how it seems to have to kill time, don’t you, 
Virginia? 

Anne’s luncheon was lovely and what do you suppose I 
found at my place? A large wicker basket containing fifteen 
separate and distinct gifts — as a reward of merit for mak- 
ing the dress for Beth Mills. If that wasn’t just like Anne! 

Grandmother Burwell actually paid us a visit last week 
and stayed all night. She loves our house and the whole 
atmosphere of the place but doesn’t approve of my sanction 
of Woman’s Suffrage. We happened to get on the subject 
and I was glad that Anne Tennant didn’t happen in for there 
would have been blood shed sure. The topic veered to the 
“woman who toils” and Grandmother was in her element 
for she’s strong for the men, you know, and always has been. 
She says she feels sure that if women were not monopolizing 
men’s rightful places to such an extent, the great scheme of 
the universe would adjust itself without further ado. She 
says she has a deep sympathy for men in all walks of life, 
the many temptations and pitfalls that beset their paths 
being almost too much for them. She believes that a great 
many domestic tragedies and subsequent divorces would be 
averted if there were no pretty girls seated in men’s offices 
in close proximity to them day in and day out. It’s as sim- 
ple as A B C she says; man at office all day — pretty girl at 


[ 70 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


desk — man goes home to tired wife and cross children and 
starts out again in A M. leaving cross wife and crosser 
children and is greeted at office by fresh pretty girl with no 
cares to speak of (of course Grandmother wouldn’t admit 
that some do support or help support large families) who 
smiles sweetly as he enters — Result, divorce court and ali- 
mony. Garry listened patiently until she had finished and 
then expressed his disgust at such a one-sided view. 

‘‘O, of course, Grandmother, if you class all men alike, 
why I suppose there’s something in what you say but nine- 
ty-nine out of every hundred men love their wives devotedly 
and would be perfectly safe with ten pretty girls in their 
offices.” 

“Most certainly,” agreed Grandmother, “there’s safety in 
numbers — I am speaking of one only.” 

“O, well then, one,” snapped Garry, shrugging his aris- 
tocratic shoulders, “but I repeat — any decent man is perfectly 
all right with the prettiest girl imaginable and the wife ought 
not to object.” 

“O, very well,” said I, more out of mischief than anything 
else, “it’s a poor rule that won’t work both ways — how 
would you like a young and handsome man in my kitchen 
every day assisting me with my housework?” 

Garry smiled a sickly smile and immediately suggested 
a game of bridge and, speaking of oil stoves, what do you 
think Anne and Kate did today? They had gone up the road 
several miles to take some clothes and food to some poor 
families and they became so cold and tired on the way back 
that they began scanning the horizon for a wagon of some 
kind in which to continue the journey home. The only 
thing that came along was Stormfield’s one hearse returning 
from a funeral and as they knew the driver well they per- 
suaded him to let them get inside and ride home. Kate says 
it will do for a dress rehearsal and that she enjoyed it im- 
mensely but Anne says that she felt awfully dead most of 
the time. 

Nov. 14. 

With barred doors and drawn shades the Watson raffle 
was successfully carried through yesterday and I didn’t get 
the tablecloth, but I had twenty-four companions in misery 
who wept and wailed and gnashed their teeth while Frances 
Marston, the victorious holder of the winning number, waved 
the Irish lace dream in our faces. However, Madame Wat- 


[ 71 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


son served heavenly sandwiches and Light of Asia tea and 
that helped some, believe me. 

The children and I spent Monday at Poplar Gate, Marcia 
Norrington’s lovely home, and you would go wild over her 
old mahogany and rosewood. She has a wonderful and 
choice collection, and as for paintings — a real Michael Angelo, 
as true as I live! She is the very essence of culture and re- 
finement and has three lovely children, Hope, the eldest 
daughter, being a girl after my own heart; a fresh, unas- 
suming, genuine girl — a rare thing in this day of precocious 
maidenhood. 

Geof and Letty Donnelly are two of the wittiest of the 
“stranded aristocrats” and their election dinner came off last 
night and was the smartest thing ever — clever signs all about 
and a torchlight parade around the house, everyone carr^’^- 
ing fourth of July sparklers and all the other lights turned 
out. Dick made a typical campaign speech, talking for hours 
and saying absolutely nothing and Attorney Kauffmann 
made some apropos remarks that were the acme of wit. 
Anne said she was a militant suffragette and looked and 
acted the part. Garry and I must give a party soon — I’m 
ashamed that we haven’t done so long ago. 

By the way, the Stanley Newcombs have twins — they’re 
two weeks old now and Garry heard the news in town the 
day they arrived, but he’s a perfect sphinx, you know, and 
guards with greatest care all little items of interest that he 
unwittingly culls from time to time; sort of preserves them 
in alcohol, as it were, and by the time I have wormed them 
out of him they’re old enough to vote. 

I had an awful disappointment today when I learned that 
our adorable doctor does not dance and doesn’t even want to 
learn. Laurie Kendricks used to be a regular belle of the 
ball and one could discuss all one’s ailments with him to the 
strains of the Merry Widow waltz. I won’t take Dr. Colt off 
my list exactly but he’s dropped about one hundred pegs in 
my estimation. 

Ethel Barton went home Sunday after spending a few 
days with me; she said she had a glorious time but didn’t 
feel very well — kept insisting every five minutes that she 
had appendicitis but I simply wouldn’t hear to such a 
thing and made her dash around to parties and help me sew 
and make the beds. She says I am a perfect Legree. 


[ 72 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Frances Marston has a regular tyrant in her kitchen and 
has been afraid to call her soul her own and yet has clung 
to the masterful one because she was used to her and “knew 
her ways” and all those other idiotic reasons that make us 
bow before our servants. And, by the way, what a much 
abused word “servant” is. I consider it a fine strong word 
with a fine strong meaning. But the worm has turned at 
last and Frances has asserted herself and informed the slave- 
driver that they will make an attempt, at least, to get along 
without her in the future. 

Garry and I were there for dinner Monday evening and 
when we had arrived at the coffee and repartee, a frightful 
crash from the pantry made us all leap from our chairs while 
Frances dashed out to investigate. 

“O, Barbara,” we heard her cry, “what have you done? 
That pitcher was the joy of my life and I counted it one of 
my dearest treasures. It belonged to my great-grandmother 
and has been in the family for generations.” 

“Time it was broke, then,” growled Barbara, turning on 
her heel, while we all had hard work to keep serene. Then 
and there Frances, goaded on by the loss of her heirloom, 
had it out with the tyrant who coolly replied that she was 
intending to leave anyway and would take a place this time 
where “the folks was up-to-date in their dishware.” 

“Dear me, I hope I won’t regret dismissing her,” Frances 
panted as she reseated herself at the table, “ ‘a bird in the 
hand,’ you know — ” 

“Yes, we know,” remarked Hobart dryly, “but birds of 
this particular feather are much better off in the bush — to 
the tall timbers with Barb, say I.” 

Gilbertine, Patty, Howard Brooks and Sliv Chaddock are 
coming to dinner tonight, it being Patty’s nineteenth birth- 
day. I’ll telephone Bruce and Rachel and we can have two 
tables of bridge. Patty is as pretty as a picture these days 
while Gilbertine always looks as if she had just stepped out 
of a bandbox; she’s a typical tailor-made girl and is always 
exquisitely neat and well groomed. I see Anne approaching, 
spring-like and jaunty, in spite of the slushy snow — ^yes, 
snow; it began last night and has kept up all day, but it 
isn’t the kind that lasts. 

The children, particularly Nancy, are getting very con- 
scious and it worries me not a little. A little while ago, 
Nancy came up to my desk and said, “Mother, be sure to 


[ 73 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


tell Aunt Virginia that cute thing I said yesterday. And I 
sat there when I said it.” she added, pointing out to Phil 
the exact spot. 

I’d like to stay up here in my comfortable room and read 
up for the “Metaphiz” meeting but must go down, for dear 
old Anne has been there some moments and Mrs. Larrabee 
is even now ascending the steps. Anne dislikes her intense- 
ly — says she is a cross between a Christian Scientist and a 
dope fiend. 

O, I forgot, the Newcomb twins are boy and girl; isn’t 
it nice? 

November 24 . 

Our Metaphysical meeting at Fenway Farm this after- 
noon was extremely interesting, and funny also, for we 
would interrupt every minute to discuss things. Letty Don- 
nelly read aloud from the “Ministry of Beauty” and we chal- 
lenged every statement the Kirkham man made. Kate Wat- 
son said she’d been jamming and damning until she was 
fit for her bed only but she’d managed to toddle up there 
just the same. She does make the most delicious jams and 
marmalades and is so young looking that it is hard to be- 
lieve that she is the tall Gilbertine’s mother. Kate lives her 
life according to the principle of non-resistance and she cer- 
tainly deserves a lot of credit for it is really a much more diffi- 
cult proceeding than the aggressive, “beat your way” stand 
that most of us take. 

I, myself, do not agree with friend Kirkham on all points, 
particularly where he speaks of freedom from things ma- 
terial; really that makes me tired. It’s largely tempera- 
mental anyway, and I fail to see the beauty or freedom in 
going without things if one doesn’t have to. I’ve had to go 
without so many things in my life that I’ll take all that come 
my way and hang on to them like grim death. 

Marion Winter (she’s very quiet but awfully bright and 
lives across from Anne) told of a fine man whom she knew 
who was perfectly happy if he had three square meals a 
day and a bed at night and believed that everyone should 
live on that principle and desire nothing more. Perfect rot, 
I think; I’ll wager that the man in question has something 
very vital lacking in his make-up. And then there’s a vast 
difference between being contented and satisfied, you know, 
I, for instance, being perfectly contented but not absolutely 
satisfied, by any means. 


[ 74 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Roberta holds that beauty is positively essential to a full 
and completely rounded life, beauty in every form and phase 
being one of the every day necessities, and I thoroughly agree 
with her. Letty agrees to a certain extent and admits that 
ugliness is a sin unless it is beyond help but says that in 
her opinion the smartest thing on this planet is to acquire 
the gift of elimination and there’s a wealth of meaning in 
the thought. But when all is said and done, Virginia, the 
meaning that life’s gifts have for us and the value that we, 
individually, place upon them, is the only thing that counts 
and although we have to take things as they come (and you 
can’t get around the fact that we do), there are a great 
many ways of taking them, for really the key to the whole 
big situation lies in the point of view. 

“Daughters of Time, the hypocrite days. 

Muffled and dumb, like barefoot dervishes, 

And marching single, in an endless file. 

Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.” 

Anne has such beautiful ideas about things and her in- 
sight into human nature is marvelous, while her whole per- 
sonality expresses the spirit of giving. She never dreams of 
making a gift that does not mean something to her or that 
she does not want herself and she gives of herself freely 
with everything and with her boundless tact and under- 
standing makes even her acts of charity an artistic triumph. 
And through it all runs a deep vein of humor which, added 
to her wit and cleverness, gives the necessary leavening 
touch. 

Rachel had come up with Rosamond but didn’t voice any 
sentiments, much to my disappointment, for she has most 
interesting ideas on every subject within the range of the 
average human intelligence. 

The snow is all gone again and the walk along the bluff 
on the old Indian trail was delightful — the path starts at 
the corner of Buttercup Cottage and goes directly past Fen- 
way Farm. 

Richard Tennant said last night that he considers cour- 
age the biggest thing in the category of human character- 
istics — not physical bravery, by any means, but a mental 
strength that will bring one triumphantly through the in- 
evitable trials and troubles of our daily life. Garry said that 
the whole proposition was simply a question of having suffi- 
cient nerve to bluff the other fellow into thinking you’re 


[ 75 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


smart, but that cynical and pessimistic side that he some- 
times reveals is all put on, I know. But he really was funny 
at dinner tonight and I laughed for an hour. Lee Spaulding 
had been in the office this morning describing his new six- 
cylinder car and then Burt Williams invited him to lunch 
at the Iroquois and spent the whole time discoursing upon 
the itinerary for their trip abroad this winter and conse- 
quently Garry felt rather small and poverty-stricken by the 
time he reached home this evening. 

“Well,” he said, pathetically, as he was describing the 
boundless riches of his friends, “the Bible tells us to be in 
the world but not of it, but I guess I’m of the world but not 
‘in it.’ ” 

I almost choked on a large slice of pineapple for Garry 
unconsciously says the drollest things at timesj. But 1 
arose to the occasion with promptitude. 

“O, don’t talk like that, Garry dear,” I protested, “you 
must not hold such thought — don’t even think for a moment 
that you’re not going to get to the top of the ladder for if 
you allow yourself to do so, you’ll surely be down and out. 
You know Roberta says that it’s our ‘bad thinks’ that bring 
most of our troubles upon us.” 

“That’s all very well for Roberta and the others that are 
roosting in million dollar coops, but I can’t see it that way. 
Thinks or no thinks, we get all that’s coming to us in the 
way of bumps and knocks, some of us more than our share.” 

“Don’t, Garry, please,” I pleaded, “you are simply rebell- 
ing at fate because some of your friends have a few more 
luxuries than you have — you, with your two beautiful child- 
ren and dear little home and a wife who adores you and per- 
fect health and a million other things — I’m ashamed of you!” 

“And I’m ashamed of myself, dearest,” acknowledged 
Garry, ‘^and I didn’t really mean it, you know, not for a 
minute. Still,” he concluded, resignedly, a few moments 
later, “the fact remains, my darling, that ‘them that has, 
gits.’ 

December 12. 

I have warned Norah that I will be most disagreeable 
until next spring and she may leave if she wishes, for really 
this process of bundling children up in winter is absolutely 
ruinous to the most placid disposition. They express a desire 
to go out and then before you have recovered from the 
effort of robing them in a hundred and one garments they 


[ 76 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


want to come in again and hardly are their outside gar- 
ments peeled off before they again feel the call of the out 
of doors. Of course I don’t humor my offspring every time, 
by any means, but it’s a discouraging business, just the 
same. 

I’ve rather neglected you of late, I know, and I feel very 
guilty when I gaze at your numerous billet doux but I’ve 
had such quantities of sewing on hand and seem to belong 
to so many things and then I had to write a paper for our 
literary society. O, yes, I do belong to a literary society 
and I ‘writ’ a paper, too, as Phil says. I was keeping it dark 
but open confession is good for the soul and you may as 
well know the worst. My literary efforts took the form of 
a dissertation on the immortal Beatrice and it wasn’t bad, 
either, if I do say it ‘as shouldn’t.’ Nancy has been much 
impressed by the literary and intellectual atmosphere in 
which we have all been steeped and a few days ago asked 
my permission to invite some children in for the purpose of 
forming a reading club. (She already belongs to a sewing 
society, at 7!) 

“But do you think, dear,” I asked, “that you could in- 
terest your little friends in such things? They would much 
rather be out of doors playing, I am sure.” 

“But,” she protested, “they’re so stupid, all of them; 
why, mother, Pinkey Tompkins has never even heard of 
Dante!” 

She is a perfect Atlas, you know, and has the cares of 
the world on her shoulders, but it would take many Nancy s 
to make a literary light out of said Pinkey, I’m afraid; his 
face is as round as an apple and absolutely devoid of expres- 
sion and at first glance you can’t tell whether he’s going or 
coming and his mentality is on a par with his physical ap- 
pearance. Of course, it goes without saying that all the 
other children in the neighborhood carry well-thumbed 
Brownings with them day and night. 

We all went in to Grandma Burwell’s for Thanksgiving 
dinner and succeeded in making a four dollar turkey look 
like thirty cents. 

The telephone just rang and, my dear, it was Natalie 
Barton, in town, saying that Ethel had been operated upon 
for appendicitis yesterday but was getting along fairly well. 
I am overcome with remorse and shall have Garry send a 
van load of flowers and fruit out to the hospital tomorrow. 


[ 77 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


We can let the doctor’s bill wait, if necessary; and, just here, 
why do people always keep doctors waiting longer for their 
money than anybody else, as if they never needed food or 
clothes or any of the necessaries of life, I wonder? But I 
simply must atone for my lack of sympathy and understand- 
ing. I never thought for a moment that Ethel really 
meant it. 

This is a perfect Christmas card day, the snow a shim- 
mery mass of sparkling crystals and the sun a ball of fiery 
gold in the sky — I never saw so much snow so early in the 
season. 

Last night we “bridged” it at Marion Winter’s and dur- 
ing supper the conversation turned on early rising and all 
that pertains thereto. I thought of you and your decided 
views on the subject and aired some of them together with 
a few of my own. It’s amazing Virginia, the number of 
otherwise discerning and intelligent women who breakfast 
in bed. I gave as my opinion that illness and old age are 
the only valid excuses for such a practice and they all leapt 
upon me, figuratively, and abused me roundly. 

“Well,” I said, “I’ve been married a great many years 
(broad grins from the audience) and my husband has never 
yet had to eat his breakfast without me, save when a trained 
nurse has been at the helm.” 

“I always love a cheerful liar, anyway, don’t you, girls?” 
remarked Rosamond, adding that she thought it was much 
smarter to lie back among the pillows and be lazy as long 
as possible. 

“What about it, Garry?” asked Dick Tennant, “is that 
diminutive wife of yours telling the plain, unvarnished truth? 
Her looks belie her words, I greatly fear.” 

“O, you can’t prove anything by me, fellows,” said the 
unkind Garret, “I have breakfasted for years with the Morn- 
ing Record opposite me and I’ve always supposed that Nan 
was behind it for I’ve seen it move occasionally, but I’ve never 
been absolutely certain — ” 

“Viper,” I said, crushed to earth, “poisonous reptile, here- 
after I’ll take life easier and not concern myself in the least 
as to whether you’re making your old train or not.” And I 
turned a wrathful back upon my life partner. 

“Calm yourself, my love,” said husband, “the mere sug- 
gestion of your presence was enough and I’ve always been 
more than satisfied at your early morning interest in me. 


[ 78 ] 


‘Nancy, Philip and the Second Donnelly 46 



\ 








A BIT O’ SILENCE 


And it’s a good test, too, boys, take it from me,” he con- 
cluded, turning to the others. 

“You’re right it is,” said Bruce, “and I’ve always said 
that while some friendships might do so, not many can stand 
the breakfast test.” 

“Well, how about Sunday morning when we were out 
gunning and breakfasted at Lotus Cottage,” asked Bob 
Thornton, with a twinkle in his eye — “have the lady’s charms 
diminished to any great extent because of the meal we shared 
with her in the cold gray dawn?” 

“O,” said Bruce with an effort at nonchalance, “that’s dif- 
ferent, and, like ‘the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la,’ 
has nothing to do with the case,” and he blushed furiously. 

“By the way, The Mikado will be here next week with 
Fritzi Scheff as Yum Yum,” announced Anne, to call our 
attention from Bruce’s discomfiture, I knew, “and though 
we know it by heart, we must all go even if we sell our shoes 
or pawn the crown jewels to do so.” 

Miss Higgins came up just then and asked if any of us 
had been in to see Ruth St. Denis in her Hindoo dances and 
the talk turned upon snakes and reptiles and all phases of 
the lady’s art. Miss Higgins is a teacher of physical culture 
and asthetic dancing in B.; she is boarding at Marcia’s and 
is a charming woman of innate refinement and gentleness 
of bearing. She is here for the winter and of course has to 
go in and out every day but says that living in such an at- 
mosphere of culture and refinement as Stormfield expresses 
is worth the effort. She has taken a great fancy to little 
me and doesn’t hesitate to say so. She says that while all 
things else may be attractive at the moment, it is all-around 
capability that counts in the long run and young Mrs. Van- 
Clief expresses said quality to the fullest extent, added of 
course to her many other charming attributes. O, I don’t 
know! Hats off to Miss Higgins! I am mentally hurling 
large boquets at the beautiful lady and courtesying low be- 
fore her while slaves and eunuchs are dragging in whole car- 
goes of costly gifts from the Orient to lay at her honorable 
feet. 

A real true compliment goes to my head like wine and 
gives me a new lease of life. I thoroughly believe that every 
one is the better for a bit of encouragement in the way of 
spontaneous praise once in a while and when I, with my 
innumerable faults, hear words of adulation bestowed upon 


[ 79 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


my unworthy self, I sit right up and take notice. Will you 
ever forget the night of your announcement dinner when 
Billy, apropos of nothing, suggested taking inventory of the 
various faults of the assembled company and suggesting im- 
provements in them. You remember how we all twirled our 
thumbs and mentioned one or two of your faults in a weak 
voice and possibly three tiny ones of Billy’s while no one 
could think of a single flaw in my jewel of a Garry. But when 
they came to me — ye gods and little fishes! the volley of 
words that shot forth rings in my ears even yet. How we 
all laughed! But anyway. I’m sort of a useful and neces- 
sary creature in my own little sphere and that’s the essen- 
tial thing, you know. 

The other day at Anne’s we were discussing the dearest 
thing in life and the biggest thing and the funniest thing 
and so forth and when it came to the saddest or most un- 
bearable thing the ideas were extremely varied. Anne said 
that to be where there were no animals to love and care for 
would be the most awful state of existence she could imagine 
and Marcia thought that to be stranded far from any antique 
shops filled the bill, while Roberta gave as her opinion of sad 
desolation, a complete ostracism from books. 

‘T can’t imagine anything worse than to be where you 
can’t get olive oil for salad dressing,” stated Connie, and 
we knew she meant it. 

“Not half as bad as to be unable to get paints or stencil 
materials,” said Esther, while Sally and Kate couldn’t con- 
ceive of anything worse than a kitchenless existence for they 
both love to cook and fuss around stoves. Letty said that to 
be where people were not allowed to laugh would be the most 
horrible while my idea was that to be where all the people 
were grown up and there were no babies and where we 
weren’t allowed to dance would be the most tragic state 
imaginable. Rachel sat quietly through it all and not until 
two or three asked for her opinion did she give it. 

“There is no state of existence,” she said, slowly, “quite 
so unbearable as to feel and know that you are no longer 
necessary to anyone’s daily life — nothing is so terrible as 
that.” 

We immediately began talking fast and furiously and all 
at once about anything we could think of that was light and 
frothy and thereby averted a catastrophe. I’m sure. 


[ 80 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


The Vales are in town for a few weeks but as they spend 
almost as much time there as here, we hardly miss them. 
Kiss my beloved niece for me and tell her that her Aunt Nancy 
loves her “forty million” as my Philip says. 


Dec. 21. 

At last I know what real winter is! No wonder I never 
liked it before, for what does one know about winter in the 
city, with it’s neatly shoveled walks and sloppy slush and 
dirty brown snow! But this is something like it! A real 
country winter. Great mounds of fresh, fluffy snow, the 
roads and orchards piled high with it and the fences, posts 
and houses taking on all sorts of queer shapes under their 
burden of frothy whiteness. You go to bed at night leaving 
an every-day world that you are used to and you awake in 
the morning to find that the various familiar landmarks 
have taken on all sorts of weird forms. Egyptian temples, 
Scottish feudal halls with moat and draw bridge, and Italian 
palaces rear themselves out of the ground before your aston- 
ished eyes, the trees are covered with a lacy net-work that 
you are sure is the work of fairies and you are overcome 
by the elusive charm of it all. And then the silence ! Really, 
the calm stillness casts a perfect spell over one and tired 
nerves and racked brains succumb instantly to it’s magic in- 
fluence. 

You know by this time, of course, that Jim Langdon was 
here for over night last week and his visit had all the charm 
of the unexpected but was altogether too short. I am so glad 
that you and they live in the same city and I sometimes wish 
that we might all be together but I could never leave this de- 
lightful place. I’m sure. Jim assures me that our lovely 
cousin is as beautiful as ever; that the new son is quite as 
fine a baby as little Dan. Isabel’s beauty is so bewitching, 
isn’t it? That odd olive complexion, the huge gray eyes 
and the wonderful pale gold hair. It must be very amusing 
the way artists and photographers pester the life out of her 
for she certainly is generous enough. I’m sure. 

Her absolute lack of consciousness and her happy-go- 
lucky way of doing things are so attractive, too, though some 
men would go mad with such a wife. Jimmy showed me 
the picture of their new bungalow at the shore and I en- 
thused madly over everything except the way the hooded 
fire-place in the living room slanted directly to the ceiling. 


[ 81 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


I told Jim that I thought that the absence of a lintel-board 
detracted materially from the artistic effect. 

“There was a method in my madness in doing away with 
the shelf idea,” explained Jim, in that dry way of his, “for 
if there is no place at hand where Isabel can deposit the 
baby’s bottle, Dan’s rubber boots, a porter-house steak or 
the family hair brush, why they won’t be there — don’t you 
see?” 

“You’re a wise old owl, Jimmy boy,” said Garry, “and 
no mistake.” 

Garry hasn’t been feeling well and is at home today; he 
thinks he’s in for an attack of tonsilitis — ^you’ve had it — 
’nuff said. 

Rachel was here for dinner the night Jim came and I 
was so glad that he could meet her for now you will have 
another and unbiased opinion about my favorite. 

Anne found a pitiful little kitten near the Erie Station 
yesterday and brought it home with her, of course. She 
has named it Erysipelas. 

Yesterday, the mood being upon me, I sallied forth to 
pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Dill, a rather 
pathetic looking couple and the fond parents of a four- 
months old child, who have recently taken up their residence 
next door to Mrs. Larrabee. I was dying to see the baby at 
close range and was overjoyed at being requested to follow 
my card up to the nursery. 

“I trust you will pardon me for not coming down, Mrs. 
Van Clief,” was Mrs. Dill’s apologetic greeting, “but not even 
the combined efforts of Archibald, Lena and myself were 
sufficient to get any of the other rooms up to seventy-three 
and one-quarter, which is the correct temperature for Archi- 
bald Junior’s proper physical development, and, of course, 
I can’t leave him an instant — do come right in and make 
yourself comfortable.” 

I did so and took a seat as close to the crib as the anxious 
parent would allow, she hovering about with her eagle eye 
upon me. One glance at Archibald, Jr., was sufficient. I 
saw his finish at once. At four he will be quoting entire 
passages from the bible, at ten, writing lengthy essays on 
the “Evolution of Man” and “Flora and Fauna of the Bar- 
badoes” and will be distributing tracts in frock coat and 
side whiskers to benighted heathen before he is twenty-five. 

“I simply adore babies,” I began effusively, with a side 


[ 82 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


glance at Archibald, “I have two of my own and wish I had 
several more for Nancy and Phil are almost grown up now 
and go out to parties and things, you know.” 

“Do they, indeed?” my hostess inquired, skeptically, 
“why you are nothing but a child yourself, from your looks.” 

“O, it’s because I am little,” I suggested, carelessly, “and 
then I was married at eighteen.” But I was inwardly re- 
solving that when I was a great-grandmother, I wouldn’t 
look as ancient as Mrs. Dill did that minute if I had to have 
my face enameled. 

“Yes, the little things are interesting,” agreed Mrs. Dill, 
“but how nervous they make one, and really one can’t do an- 
other thing but care for one’s child, can one?” 

“No, one really can’t,” I said politely, and wanted to 
add, “if one is your class” but I refrained. 

Mr. Dill (he looks just like a pickle, too) had been 
pivoting about and finally came in and seated himself op- 
posite me. 

“May I ask what books you used in the rearing of your 
children, Mrs. Van Clief?” he inquired anxiously, his thumbs 
twirling madly and a beatific smile of interested fatherhood 
o’erspreading his countenance. 

“Books?” I fairly screamed, “I never had one in the 
house — O yes, I believe a few on some wild subjects were 
presented to me before the stork had covered more than 
an hour’s distance from the premises, but I hurled them in 
the rubbish heap with the thermometers and scales and all 
those other barbaric things that make the lives of young 
parents a perfect nightmare — mine were old-fashioned 
babies and I used common sense and cradle songs more 
than anything else.” 

“Do you mean to say that you rocked your infants?” 
they both exclaimed in one breath, “why we never think of 
even holding Archibald.” 

“O, do let me have him a minute,” I implored, and suit- 
ing the action to the word, lifted the astonished Archibald 
out of the crib and cuddled him close while the panic- 
stricken parents fairly glowered at me. 

It was mean of me, I know, Virginia, but this modern 
slaughter of the innocents makes me tired and I wanted 
to give the poor little thing a real old cuddle for once. At 
precisely seventeen minutes past three, both parents began 
pecking at the baby who had fallen asleep on my lap and 


[ 83 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


actually looked almost human with his little head cradled 
in my arm and his tiny finger curled tightly about my thumb. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, rather sharply, “surely 
you’re not going to awaken him, he’s just gone asleep.’ 

“O, but it’s time for his nourishment,” Mrs. Dill replied, 
“and we are most particular about the exact time — Archi- 
bald, will you go down and heat the food, please, and re- 
member the formula; 3 ounces sugar of milk, 2 of barley 
water, 3 spoons of lime water, 4 of boiled water, 1 of top 
milk, 2 of cream, 3 of oatmeal gruel, 4 of Piffle’s food, 3 

quarters of ” But by this time I was half way down 

stairs assuring my hostess that I had spent a most delightful 
hour but had just remembered the missionary meeting at 
four and simply had to be there. 

Wouldn’t it jar you, Virginia? But what’s the use of 
talking about it — only it makes me laugh when I think of 
the large sums of money being spent every year for foreign 
missions when there’s such a field at home. 

Kate Watson has the most remarkable mentality and has 
an abounding faith in her religious convictions. She says 
that of course there is enough of everything for everybody 
and no one need go without. She simply affirms that “Sup- 
ply is Infinite” and gets what she wants every time. She 
has a boundless belief in an unfailing source of supply. 
Anne is just like her and when her big setter (that she 
adored) died last week, she was so disconsolate that she was 
unable to do a thing. She said she must have another dog to 
take King’s place and would demonstrate one. Within a few 
hours she went to the door in answer to some pawing and 
scratching and there stood a big, white hound who walked 
in and made himself very much at home. Anne says she 
will adore him always for he’s a gift straight from heaven 
if there ever was one. 

The Tennant children (I say children, though they are 
almost grown up) have beautiful manners but have always 
had their ups and downs like all other normal beings and I 
presume, in their younger days, indulged in many a bout 
and not a few tongue lashings and the scientifically reared 
and trained Boughton children who have recently moved 
next door to Anne’s are a constant source of amazement to 
them all, especially Remington. We dined there a few 
nights ago and observed that Tony was perturbed about 
something. 


[ 84 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“Father,” he began suddenly, addressing himself to Dick, 
“have you ever heard the Boughton children quarrel?” 

“Quarrel?” echoed Richard, “why, no, son, I don’t believe 
I have — I really did not suppose that they ever did such an 
unmentionable thing.” 

“Well,” said Remington, “it didn’t sound exactly like 
quarrelling but I knew it was from the way they looked and 
acted. They were building a snow man and Carol said that 
his arms would have to be made with sticks and Dorcas 
didn’t think so. I could see that she was awfully mad, but 
she just stared at Carol and said, ‘Pardon me, Caroline, but 
you are very much mistaken, I am sure.’ And Carol just 
stared back at her and said, ‘Well, I beg your most humble 
pardon, Dorcas Manchester Boughton, but you are entirely 
wrong.’ Gee whiz,” he concluded with a sniff, “I’d have 
hauled off and given a few biffs, but I suppose well-brought- 
up children wouldn’t know how.” 

“Well, preserve me from well-brought-up children, then,” 
said Anne, “I much prefer the “biffy” kind. 

“Same here,” said Garry, and a chorus of “dittoes” rent 
the air. 

Rachel was here for luncheon and is now reading Cham- 
ber’s latest novel to Garry who simply can’t hold his head 
up but won’t give in and send for the doctor. I intend to, 
however, before very long, if he doesn’t improve. I’ve been 
busy getting Christmas boxes off to our numerous relatives 
and will certainly give the Three Wise Men a piece of my 
mind if I ever meet them, for I’m worn to a frazzle. 

I was holding my son on my lap last evening and em- 
bracing him madly; he’s so huggable, you know, and allows 
me to squeeze him almost to pieces, as Nancy never would. 

“O, Phil, darling,” I said to him, “who ever made such 
a precious thing as you?” 

“Do you want to know?” he asked quickly. I assured 
him that I did and he made answer: “Well, God said, 

‘Dream, mother, dream,’ and then He called ‘Philip, dear 
lamb,’ and there I was.” I smothered him with kisses and 
wonder if he is another Emerson, or what. He has three 
crowns on his head, so the barber discovered, and that augurs 
well for his future — also his rage when he tries to brush it, 
Garry says. Let’s see, Napoleon and Abraham Lincoln had 
three crowns, didn’t they? 


[ 85 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Dec. 26. 

Merry Christmas indeed! It was anything but in this 
house for Garry has been in bed for three days and the 
moaning and groaning can’t be imagined — men certainly 
make an awful fuss when they are really sick but then, the 
poor boy has been very ill and tonsilitis is the extension of 
the limit. 

And to add to the turmoil, Rachel has it, too, and I feel 
as if I ought to be up there with her for she got it from Garry 
without a doubt. Dr. Colt is a darling and has the most fas- 
cinating way of holding his head. I told Melia over the tele- 
phone that she must have him for Rachel and I could promise 
that she would come out all right. Rachel wanted an older 
man at first but I persuaded her to have our family physi- 
cian and she’s mighty glad she did. He is very young; just 
Garry’s age (I saw it in the marriage license record) but I 
prefer the young men to the old ones — they are keener and 
more interested and read and study all the time while the 
older doctors go on their reputations, even though they were 
made in the dark ages. 

Of course, our day wasn’t absolutely dismal — people kept 
dashing in and out all day and the Christmas spirit was pres- 
ent always. Then the holly and the mistletoe and turkey and 
plum pudding and sleigh-bells and presents helped some. 
The children had their usual big tree and loads of gifts and 
went to bed exhausted. My share was several pairs of silk 
stockings and a few checks, not to mention a lapis-lazuli ring 
from Garry that would put your eye right out. (I forgot, 
Virginia — do forgive me). He received the usual assortment 
of neckties, sox and handkerchiefs from well meaning rela- 
tives and four new novels from Anne and Dick and I gave him 
a complete smoking set in Teco that will require strictest 
economy in all directions for weeks to come. The Tennant 
family gave me a huge book of Flagg drawings. It’s stun- 
ning and the inscription went to my heart : “For our darling 
Nancy, from the Tennants, who love her dearly.” 

Garry is calling me this minute so I’ll stop and finish this 
tomorrow for my poor boy needs me all the time. 

Dec. 27. A little more light on the subject of dear Rachel. 
Bruce and Patty came in late yesterday afternoon and said 
they would stay a while with Garry so I donned rubber 
boots and short skirt and flew through the woods to Rachel’s 
tiny cottage. I found her really very ill though not in any 


[ 86 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


danger and as I sat by the bed holding her hand I couldn’t 
help noticing around her neck a slender gold chain, on which 
hung a lovely wedding ring — narrow and round, and a small 
locket which she had evidently opened and forgotten to close. 
In it on one side was a picture of a most winsome child with 
dark eyes and curls ^ the other side was vacant. Rachel s 
lovely voice was very husky but she kept making little wan- 
dering fragmentary remarks, seemingly unconscious of my 
presence. “O, Philip, my dear,” she would say, “can you 
ever forgive me and can I ever make you know again how 
much I love you? I can’t hold out much longer, Philip, I 
really can’t; but I will,” she would add, sternly, half raising 
herself, “I will, for I can never forget — never, never, never — ” 
and then, sinking back again, she murmured “but I love you, 
dearest, more than any woman ever loved before.” 

I felt like a thief in the night but what could I do? I 
won’t tell the others, of course. And so his name is Philip — 
no wonder she loves my little Phil, and she pronounces the 
name in such a manner as to make it a caress. I didn’t leave 
until she was sleeping peacefully and I never saw anything 
sweeter than her lovely face on the pillow in the dusky twi- 
light; the dark hair forming a misty halo about her head and 
the long, wet lashes brushing her pale cheeks. In spite of 
its lines of determination, her face expresses such purity of 
thought in every feature. As I gazed at her lying there 1 
couldn’t help thinking of that paragraph in “Romola” where 
it says : “Her life could never be happy any more but it must 
not, could not be ignoble.” But dear Rachel’s life can be 
happy once more and is going to be. I’m sure. 

Rachel’s dog lay at the foot of her bed all the time I was 
there and kept his eagle eye upon me as if he feared I would 
do harm to his treasure. Most animals like me but Copper 
doesn’t exactly approve of the way I have deposed him in his 
mistress’ favor. When I returned I found my other invalid 
much improved and sitting up, eagerly discussing with Bruce 
and Virginia the big dance that comes off in a few weeks. 
Bruce says that he is going to ask Rachel to go with him, but 
I know she won’t. 

I must dash into town and purchase large quantities of 
pale blue chiffon with which to make an overdress for my 
blue messaline in veiled effect, for that’s the proper caper, I 
believe. 


[ 87 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Jan. 3. 

Ellis Island for us — Nancy and Phil have the measles and 
we are quarantined for a couple of weeks; they came in with 
the New Year, or rather, out, and the children look for all 
the w^orld like speckled trout. You know they had whooping 
cough last winter and whooped until spring and we had such 
a pleasant time — we spent our nights leaping out of bed and 
dashing through cold halls to get to the babies every time 
they’d begin on a coughing performance and then in the in- 
termissions we w^ould lie awake waiting for the next cue. 
Finally we moved both cribs into our room and had a little 
taste of tenement life. We had planned to go in to hear 
Nordica tonight but of course have given it up and I shall 
sing lullabies to my babies instead and probably enjoy it just 
as much. I’m not at all nervous about them but will have to 
be very careful about their eyes, I am told. 

The invalids are up and about again and feel too silly for 
anything to think they were so sick. Rachel is coming down 
this afternoon to sing and play “Drowsy Babe” for the 
children — they adore it and insist upon her playing it every 
time she comes. Isn’t “Drowsy” a delicious word? It makes 
me think of soft, lapping water and baby owls and incense 
and chiffon and whipped cream. 

Much as I love Christmas and the whole holiday season 
it is somewhat of a nervous strain and last night Garry broke 
forth into a perfect tirade against the whole thing, he was 
so tired. 

“It’s all nonsense,” he said crossly, “perfectly flat, this 
giving presents you can’t afford to give and getting presents 
that you don’t want and couldn’t be hired to use or wear. 
Everybody hurls gifts at everybody else, simply be- 
cause it is the custom, and on Christmas morning, you find 
yourself loaded down with a miscellaneous collection of 
junk and riffraff. I agree with Anne who calls them 
‘spider’s eyebrows’ remarking that they are synonomous as 
regards suitability and serving of purpose. And in the 
same class” he continued, “are the ‘has beens’ the ‘never- 
wuzzers’ and the ‘couldn’t-evers’ labeled ‘just a loving 
thought’ in place of ‘I’m giving you this because you’re on 
my list and so I’ve got to give you something’ that ought 
to the there. 

“I believe I’ll tell Nancy and Phil the whole story before 
next Christmas and get them what they want a couple of 


[ 88 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


weeks before — then they won’t have the Santa Claus fever 
and all that tom-foolery that goes with it.” 

“Stop, this instant, Van,” ordered Rachel, who had come 
in with Bruce, “I won’t even allow you to think such things 
when I am near you — Nancy, can’t you do anything with 
your husband?” 

“Mercy, no — I gave up trying long ago,” I answered. 
“He’s perfectly hopeless.” 

“Well, if you want to be a cold-blooded pessimist, all 
right,” said Rachel, addressing herself to Garry, “but for 
pity’s sake don’t destroy all the faith of those innocent 
children in dear old Santa Claus and fairies and myths — 
belief in them is half the battle of life. And do keep your 
illusions, too,” she continued, appealingly, “a human being 
without any is so sordid and unhappy — I’ve always prayed 
that if all else were taken from me, I might be allowed to 
keep my illusions — it will keep you going when all else has 
failed you, believe me.” 

“Don’t worry your pretty head about me, Rachel,” said 
Garry, yawning lazily, “these ravings that I occasionally in- 
dulge in are merely letting off steam and I’m still a bit ugly 
from my recent attack of tonsilitis, don’t you know.” 

“That’s no excuse,” stated Rachel, firmly, “I had it also 
and I’m as amiable as a cooing dove, and anyway. Van, it’s 
a bad habit to get into, this ranting on in that gloomy, cynical 
way, for after you’ve allowed such thoughts to take root in 
your mind and eminate from your lips a few times, even in 
a half joking manner, they secure a firm foot-hold and gain 
supremacy over the brighter and more hopeful ones. Now 
let’s talk and think of pleasant things — I suggest a game of 
bridge but first I want to run up and have a peep at the 
tatooed babies.” 

I never saw Rachel in a more bewitching mood than she 
was last night — she was perfectly irresistible, and looked 
very lovely in her blue velvet suit and lynx furs. 

Uncle Jim Vale came in very unexpectedly about ten 
o’clock — he said he was in Buffalo for a few days and it was 
his only chance to see his favorite niece so he dashed out 
on the 8 o’clock train for the night. I haven’t seen him for 
a year or so and he was a perfect treat. He says he’s hard 
up, his silver mines aren’t panning out as they should and 
he must have large wads of money in order to live as he 
likes to; he suggested getting up a new religion, said that 


[ 89 ] 


A BIT O* SILENCE 


would make a go more quickly than anything else he could 
think of and he desired my co-operation. We think we will 
get out pamphlets first and then build a temple where he 
would dress in flowing robes with a high priestess by his 
side and expound on the vital issues of life while I could do 
a Salome dance outside on a platform to draw the crowds. 
I told him I would consider it for my costume wouldn’t cost 
much in it’s entirety — that’s certain. He hasn’t quite de- 
cided what he’s going to do with all the money when he gets 
it but is considering using some of it in establishing a home 
for irresponsible bachelors who invest their money in silver 
mines. I said that if I ever had any superfluous coin I 
would immediately establish a permanent fund to supply 
full bottles of ink and some decent pens for the Stormfield 
postoffice and they all agreed that money could be put to no 
better use. 

Jean Carson went home for the holidays and now writes 
that she is not coming back at all as she has secured a more 
lucrative position in New York. We’ll miss her, of course, 
but now maybe some of the other girls will have a chance 
or two. 

I am so distressed to know that the Camps have refused 
to take Bob back into their home and hearts after his un- 
fortunate experience in the bank — I don’t mind Mr. Camp’s 
taking the stand, so much, but his mother! What can she 
be made of! O, these unforgiving mothers! Why, to my 
mind the idea of unquestioning forgiveness is the one thing 
that distinguishes a mother from any other woman; it’s the 
basic principle of motherhood and one of its most sacred 
privileges. Any woman endowed with the ordinary five 
senses can wash, dress and feed a child and see to its physi- 
cal well-being, but a real mother! O, Virginia! Do you re- 
member those exquisite words in Ben Hur? — “God himself 
could not be everywhere, and so he made mothers.” How 
true it is that the niere fact of having borne a child does not 
make a mother in the deepest sense of the word, and many 
women who have typified the most exquisite motherhood 
have lived and died old maids. Take Aunt Judith, for in- 
stance. She mothers every child that comes in the range 
of her acquaintanceship and there’s always room in her 
heart for more and while Aunt Charlotte has never had any 
of her own, much to her keen regret, she’s been a mother 
to many a young girl and boy who needed her. I believe 


[ 90 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


that one of the greatest troubles is that children aren’t 
loved enough; they need petting and cuddling and kissing 
as much as food and water. And how ridiculous this mod- 
ern method of training mothers not to rock their babies! 
A woman or a man who has never rocked a child to sleep 
has missed one of lifers greatest joys. Why, Garry rocked 
Nancy to sleep every night until she was two years old and 
would have continued indefinitely only that Phil appeared 
on the scene and made a division of time necessary. I love 
every stage of baby-hood and child-hood and would walk 
miles in rain and mud to see a tiny new one, and the true 
music of the spheres, I think, is exemplified in the little 
cooing, gurgling sounds and soft purring kitten noises that 
a young baby makes when it is half awake. If you ever 
wonder what it is all about, Virginia, what this perplexing 
existence means and what we are here for, just look long at 
your Betsey Jane when she is sleeping and you will find 
the answer. I have always said that one reason why so 
many children turn out to be a disappointment to their 
fathers and mothers is that the average parents expect al- 
together too much of their children and look upon them 
as a sort of investment and figure upon the returns. If they 
would live in the present, enjoy their children while they 
are young and stop worrying about the future and what 
the children are going to do for them, they would be much 
happier. Poor Bob, if he ever needed his mother’s care and 
love, he needs it now indeed. I am trying to bring up Nancy 
and Phil to the best of my ability and I hope they will be 
a credit to me, but whether they are or not, I want most of 
all to have them know instinctively, that no matter what 
they may ever do, either through mistakes or their own 
blindness, their mother stands ready, with open arms, ever 
and always to take them in without doubt or question. I 
must now go and read Peter Rabbit to my polka-dotted in- 
fants. 


Jan. 16. 

My babies are restored to their original beauty of color- 
ing and I am delighted. I’ve been rather lonesome for no- 
body dared come except Bruce and Rachel who paid no at- 
tention to the yellow placard. I’ve put in my time making 
some dainty lingerie and conversing with the fascinating 
doctor who ran in every day as a matter of course. Both 


[ 91 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


children had it pretty hard but slept a great deal of the time 
and were so good when awake. We left them with Norah 
last night to go to Dick Tennant’s fancy dress party as they 
have been all right for several days. Anne is in town for 
a week and Richard had a party all his own in her absence. 
I went as a little school girl in short gingham dress (of 
Shirley Tennant’s), pig-tails and sun bonnet. Garry was a 
perfect lout of a country-boy, Marsh Granger the most fero- 
cious looking cannibal I ever saw and Sylvia Eastman an ex- 
quisite Dolly Varden. Esther Lane impersonated Mrs. 
Wiggs, while mine host was Carrie Nation and took the 
part to perfection. There were French chefs and trained 
nurses and Dutch girls and gypsies, Spanish cavaliers and 
little kimono ladies of Japan and a bewitching Sultan’s fav- 
orite, impersonated by Roberta. She was certainly the pride 
of the harem for her make-up was perfect in every detail. 
Roberta is unusually cultured and well-read, has traveled 
abroad extensively and went to a finishing school in Paris, 
I believe. Rachel wasn’t there — the fifteenth is an anni- 
versary of some kind and she wished to be alone. 

Bruce was the hit of the evening as Anna Held and de- 
voted himself to the girls in his attractive way. I wish he 
would stop caring for Rachel for she doesn’t know he exists 
half of the time; she’s dear to him always but treats him 
as she would any nice friend. And even if circumstances 
were different, he’s not the sort of man for her. He’s a 
sane, well-balanced fellow but too plastic and negative, 
though he’ll make an adorable husband for some girl, just 
the same. And he is a most welcome relief from the 
ubiquitous man (or woman) who invariably wants to run 
things; the kind, you know, who always wants to be “the 
bride at a wedding and the corpse at a funeral,” as the 
young son of one of our great statesmen said recently, in 
speaking of his strenuous father. 

But Rachel has a hot temper and a strong mind in spite 
of all her beauty of soul and she needs a mate who will take 
the upper hand. I hope I will meet Philip some day — I will 
if I have to go out and make a systematic search of the 
universe myself. 

Rosamond was a French court lady with powdered hair 
and patches and pompadour satin and was dazzling in the 
extreme. 


[ 92 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“You’re too beautiful for words, Rosamond,” Dick said, 
“I am completely overcome.” 

“The effect is right neat,” agreed Rosamond, “but I wish 
you might have seen my struggles endeavoring to arrive at 
the present state of completeness and I give all the credit 
for it to Frances. I was most peculiar as to bodice,” she 
said, “until Frances came to the rescue with this gorgeous 
lace affair belonging to some ancient relative, which she 
cleverly draped about my portly frame wth this wonderful 
result.” 

‘T was quite weird as to visage,” said Esther, whose 
round face is anything but Wiggs-like, “and had to do queer 
things myself to get the desired effect. Note the black court 
plaster on tooth; that empty looking cavern gives the finish- 
ing touch, I think.” 

It certainly did, we all agreed, and Bruce and Gilbertine, 
the latter as a Gypsy Queen, came up and joined the group. 

“You’re a perfect ‘sylph,’ Bruce, old boy,” said Garry, 
“I congratulate you.” 

“Well, I ought to be,” said Bruce, taking as long a breath 
as his armor would permit, “it took me hours to make con- 
nections in my get-up ; talk about the Great Divide — it wasn’t 
in it. Say, girls, how do you do the stunt, anyway?” he 
asked, with a real show of interest, “I’d like to know.” 

“Hush, man,” said Rosamond, with an unsuccessful at- 
tempt at severity. “Come, Bob, this is no place for grow- 
ing boys; I’m going to take you home.” 

Poor Mrs. Larrabee (Dick had to ask her) was a sight to 
behold, having spent hours in a fruitless endeavor to look 
like Helen of Troy. But she made things worse by contin- 
ually harping on her failure and repeating that she “never 
could do anything well, anyway, and never expected to.” 
Aren’t people like that awful? I’d rather be called conceited 
any day than be of that ilk. I always think that I can do any- 
thing that has been done before, if need be, and I usually 
find that I can. A little self-assurance is a mighty good 
thing in this world and will get to the front every time while 
the self-effacing, modest violets sit disconsolately in the 
back row. 

Mrs. Larrabee has two or three stock phrases and we 
all know them by heart. If people appeal to her they are 
invariably “so congenial, just my style, don’t you know?” 


[ 93 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


while she is “simply carried away” by any event that gives 
her pleasure. But as Mrs. L. weighs about twelve stone, she 
must be equipped with a sort of mental derrick, as it were. 

At this time of year our brave commuters are obliged to 
leave their happy homes before daylight in order to make 
the early train and as I don’t belong to the large army of 
breakfasters-in-bed, I always watch Garry out of sight. Ed 
Lane drives down to the depot every morning in a large and 
copious farm sleigh and it’s an amusing sight to see all the 
boys catch on. Ed’s man purposely drives slowly and as 
the sleigh comes into view down the broad white road, the 
various doors open and the men dash out and jump on “any 
old way.” All I can think of is a lot of flies collecting in one 
place but it surely is a pretty sight and the friendly “good- 
mornings” and “hullos” sound so cheery in the brisk morn- 
ing air while the faithful old sun pokes his nose up over 
the Concord Hills and, throwing rays of golden light over 
the sparkling snow, turns darkness into day. 

Loring comes the 28th and I am making out the list 
for the house party. Garry says he can’t see where on earth 
I am going to put them, but leave that to me. Nothing has 
ever phased me yet and such a little item as putting eighteen 
people in a house with only five bedrooms certainly won’t. 
Of course. I’ll have to farm out the children, also Norah 
and probably Garry but I’m not going to worry about it any- 
way. Matters will adjust themselves satisfactorily. I’m sure, 
for they always do when I put worry on the shelf. Tomor- 
row night, I purpose to give my bridge party. I’ve asked a 
perfect multitude and hope that I can squeeze them all in. 

Dickie and I are going coasting this afternoon at Look- 
out Hill, an irresistible spot not far from here and we hope 
to return intact. I am somewhat doubtful, however, as it is 
extremely bumpy and a large and reckless assortment of 
youngsters frequent the place — here comes my cavalier now, 
so good-bye for the present — more anon. 

P. S, Later — some hours. Dickie and I went coasting 
this afternoon as per arrangement; if I am able to be about 
again by next summer I will be down your way. It also de- 
pends upon my regaining my natural color for at present I 
am a symphony in black and blue. 


[ 94 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Jan. 17, 2:30 A. M. 

“The lights are out and gone are all the guests” and it’s a 
good thing for such pandemonium I never saw. I drank 
four cups of strong coffee in my excited capacity as hostess 
and will never get to sleep tonight and, as I haven’t a good 
book on hand, I may as well write to you. Garry said when 
I stated my intention of doing so that he always suspected 
I wasn’t quite right in the head and now he is sure about 
it, but I said I never had any doubts about him as I knew 
it from the first, and took up my pen. 

I told you I had asked everyone I knew and all accepted 
with pleasure. We were altogether too crowded for comfort 
and as they filed into the dining room, where I served a 
buffet supper, all I could think of was “the animals came 
in two by two.” Constance Granger’s sister, Gertrude Platt, 
arrived today and was a sort of guest of honor. She’s a very 
handsome girl and plays a wonderful game of bridge. Mrs. 
Larrabee played her usual brilliant game and nearly drove 
the men to distraction. For absolute maddeningness com- 
mend me to the woman who knows nothing about bridge and 
doesn’t even pretend to, but will play; the kind who trumps 
her partner’s ace, leads from a singleton in no trump, re- 
marks every five minutes, “Well, if you could only see my 
hand,” and finally ends up by asking what’s trump. I don’t 
know much about the game. Goodness knows, but I make 
an awful bluff at it by composing my visage into bridge- 
like lines and making an occasional scientific remark. 
Whenever Mrs. Larrabee asks “O, dear, did I trump your 
high card?” I always have a wild desire to say “O my, no, 
you’ve just made a grand slam in doubled no trump and 
I’m sure you’ve won the prize.” 

When we were eating a pick-up supper in the kitchen 
this evening before dressing for the party, the telephone 
rang and Anne’s voice came over the line. 

“Is that you, Nancy?” she asked, in a stage whisper, “well 
there’s an uninvited Canadian relative eating my expensive 
food this minute and I’ll have to inflict her upon you this 
evening or stay at home and I’ll be perfectly ferocious if I 
have to give up your party.” 

“Sort of a case of ‘the lady or the tiger’ ,” I answered, 
“well, make it the lady by all means and save your disposi- 
tion.” 


[ 95 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“You don’t know what you’re in for, though,” said Anne, 
“she’s — ” she hung up the receiver abruptly and told me 
later that relative was even then entering the room. It was 
popular fiction with a vengeance when they arrived, for I 
told Canada I was delighted to meet her and to have her 
with us and Anne went the rounds introducing her dear 
cousin, Mrs. Martindale from Skintville. 

She was very nice looking and could play bridge fairly 
well, which helped alleviate Anne’s discomfiture but she 
didn’t quite know what to make of the colony and raised 
her hands in holy horror when Martin and Rosamond and 
two or three others entered into a discussion about one or 
two of the recent books, and didn’t mince matters but gave 
their straightforward opinions regarding certain issues con- 
cerning them. That finished her for me. I always fight shy 
of the woman who appears shocked and horrified when any 
vital subject is mentioned; she will bear watching, while 
the free and easy sort who speaks of all things naturally 
and as a matter of course and who can greet an unexpected 
man guest without blushes or embarrassment if she happens 
to be slightly dishabille or negligee may be depended upon 
to do the straight and honorable thing every time. 

The sand-man seems to be coming rapidly in this direc- 
ton so I’ll bid you a fond farewell until morning. 

January 18. 

We’re having perfectly radiant weather, quantities of 
hard-packed snow and fine sleighing. The Vales and Mars- 
tons have taken to snow-shoeing and I’m wild to try the 
sport only the floppy looking snow shoes are so expensive. 
Mrs. Dill has some that she doesn’t use (I presume Archibald, 
Jr. doesn’t approve) — I guess I’ll cultivate her. By the way, 
the Dills and the Larrabees are not falling on each others’ 
necks just now and as their friendship had reached the 
winter molasses stage it is most noticeable. It seems that 
some one told Mrs. Dill that some one told her cousin that 
some one told her brother’s wife’s sister that some one told 
her nephew’s second wife, and so on and so forth, some- 
thing that Mrs. Dill ought to know, “for her own good,” 
and the last somebody was laboring under the impression 
that Mrs. Larrabee started the ball rolling. The something 
was a criticism as to the way the curtains were hung in 
the Dill living room I believe, or something of equally little 
importance. Consequently relations are somewhat strained 


[ 96 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


between the houses of Dill and Larrabee for the two men 
are just the kind who would listen to all the pros and cons 
and denounce the enemy instead of saying “piffle.” Poor 
Mrs. Larrabee puffed over here and wept all over my fresh 
blue linen shoulder. 

‘T know it’s silly,” she sobbed, “I never thought I’d be 
so idiotic but these little differences do ruffle up the daily 
sea of life considerably and no mistake and I never, never 
said it and I was getting so fond of Josepha.” Another 
cloud-burst. 

‘T just wouldn’t think about it at all,” I comforted her, 
“it will all blow over before long, probably, and if it doesn’t, 
why, as Fra Elbertus says, “it really doesn’t matter.” I then 
recounted various instances of neighborhood feuds and told 
her that it was lots of fun later to look back and laugh 
about it all. “And I certainly wouldn’t worry about it,” I 
concluded, “for a woman who will cast aside a good friend 
and stir up the neighborhood for such a trifling thing isn’t 
worth a single tear or the loss of a wink of sleep, and you 
can tell Mrs. Dill I said so, too, if you want to.” 

She went home actually smiling but after she had gone I 
held a little indignation meeting with myself. O, these in- 
terfering busybodies with nothing\ to do but stir up strife ! 
Deliver me from the man or woman who, from a mistaken 
sense of duty, goes to a person and recounts something that 
he or she ought to know “for your own good, my dear.” I 
firmly believe that more tragedies are caused by these self- 
same meddlers than the world will ever know of. There 
ought to be a special hell reserved for these tattlers where 
they might burn in torment for countless ages, “for their 
own good, my dear.” Of course, this little affair is nothing 
of any importance but, verily, “Life and death are in the 
power of the tongue.” 

The woods are calling so I must go — do you ever hear 
those voices whispering among the snow-laden trees as the 
winter afternoons grow twilighty?” It’s wonderful, Vir- 
ginia, and I can hear them faintly now so I must get on my 
toboggan cap and sweater and hit the trail. Rachel and 
Anne often hear them, too, so I will probably encounter one 
of them in the “forest.” 

February 2. 

“Cheer up, they ain’t no hell,” reminds Anne, when any- 
one is the least bit downcast, but her encouraging words fail 


[ 97 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


to console me today for I’m too tired to cheer up and so 
cold (it’s only ten above) that I’d much prefer a warmer 
climate for a space, for though the house party was a great 
success, I’m exhausted physically and mentally. Everything 
panned out beautifully; Anne and Dick were in town for the 
week-end and placed their house at our disposal so we de- 
cided to put all the girls there, including myself as chaperone, 
and the nine lads at our house, with Garry to see that the 
roof didn’t come off. I left the babies here for they had their 
cribs and Norah slept at Esther Lane’s with their latest ac- 
quisition, Samtina Spratt by name. Everybody came on the 
five train Friday and Ward Burlington was immedately es- 
corted to the piano and made to stay there until he played 
everything he ever kne\y. How that boy can play! I love 
a man’s playing anyway and Ward can give them all cards 
and spades when it comes to ‘hitting the ivories,’ as he says : 

I want Nancy to play, of course, and she is so full of music 
that she won’t have any trouble but Phil simply must learn 
if I have to stand over him with a club. When Ward plays 
the Arab Love Song you simply have to close your eyes to 
see an Egyptian caravan wending it’s way slowly along the 
desert with the Nile shimmering softly in the distance. 
Nancy simply can’t keep still when she hears dance music 
but cavorts around like a little sprite from one end of the 
house to the other. Dad always says she’s going to be a 
wild thing like her mother. 

“This is too much — I expected more,” said Ward, as he 
seated himself at the dinner table, and from that minute kept 
us in roars of laughter. 

“Did you hear the story of the two cats?” he asked, as the 
desert was being brought in. 

“No, do tell us,” we chimed in unison, for we dote on 
Ward’s silly stories. 

“Well,” he said, “these two felines had just consumed a 
hearty meal and, leaning lazily back, against the celler door, 
one turned to the other with the query — ‘Does my rat 
show?’ ” 

Gretchen Holland and Eleanor Belden were just steeped 
in news of all the doings in town, engagements, weddings, 
births, divorces, deaths, and so forth, but Eleanor says 
that Lois keeps you pretty well posted on current events so I 
won’t feel obliged to enumerate them. We had Stormfield’s 
one glass hack for the evening and had to go to the dance 


[ 98 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“on the installment plan. My blue dress was a great suc- 
cess and all the girls looked sweet enough to eat. Chester 
sang for us after dinner and when we returned from the 
dance, for we girls didn’t go over to Patty’s until time to 
greet the milk-man and then we told ghost stories until 
daylight and were too frightened to sleep anyway. Saturday 
we looked about two hundred and seventy-five years old — 
perfect Methusalehs, every one of us. 

The dance was wonderful; fine music and a perfect floor, 
for the committee had worked like Trojans to make it smooth 
and glassy. Of course, the dance wasn’t exactly exclusive, 
being free to all who could command the price (One dollar) 
and felt inclined to go, and some rather weird specimens 
of humanity mingled with the stranded aristocracy and the 
first families. Garry’s attention was particularly drawn to 
a perfectly killing youth in a gray plaid suit, scarlet tie, 
lavender shirt and strawberry socks. His massive head was 
Byronic in it’s wealth of chestnut waves and he had the 
Bowery glide to perfection, but never seemed at a loss for 
fair partners. 

“Do you know,” thoughtfully remarked Garry, his in- 
credulous gaze fixed on the popular one, “if I were that fel- 
low, I wouldn’t dance with a girl who’d dance with me.” 

Reddie Georger and I danced a little Dutch roll that he 
taught me — it’s delightful! I’m right in my element in a 
ball-room always. Do you suppose in Heaven we’ll be al- 
lowed to dance, once in a while? I certanly hope so, and if 
not, why I’ll buy a ticket the other way. Some people’s idea 
of perfect enjoyment is going to the theatre while others 
prefer yachting, a good ball game, the opera or traveling 
far and wide, but give me a ball-room, good music in perfect 
time, a shiny floor and a partner who knows how to waltz 
and I’ll ask for nothing more. 

Loring left last night and I miss him awfully. He’s 
positively the handsomest creature I ever saw and his eye- 
lashes make me sick with envy — that blase, indifferent man- 
ner of his is so alluring and all the girls emit long drawn 
sighs of rapture if he deigns to notice them. And withal, 
he is so courteous and unassuming, really it isn’t fair for 
one person to possess so many virtues. A whole tribe of 
us escorted him to his train and stopped at Elizabeth Wat- 
son’s on the way home. After a prolonged seige of the blues, 
Rachel was in one of her bouyant moods last evening and 


[ 99 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


made one clever remark after another and, pitted against 
Elizabeth, with her deadly gift of sarcasm and wit, and 
Anne, with her versatile tongue, it was nip and tuck, I can 
tell you. 

“This coffee fills a long-felt want,” said Anne, as she 
finished her third cup, (you know, it’s second nature to put 
the coffee pot on when anyone sees Anne coming) “it’s 
against my principles to drink more than ten cups a day 
and as I carelessly consumed four for breakfast and three 
for lunch, I had to pass it up for dinner as I felt a party in 
the air and knew I wouldn’t have the strength of mind to 
refuse the amber nector if one did materialize.” 

“Yes, and parent will now sit up all night writing her 
article for the Record — that’s a little way she has,” said 
Patty, disgustedly. “She simply lives on coffee and will 
power.” 

“Well, the coffee won’t keep her awake, you know, unless 
she holds the thought that it will do so,” stated Madame 
Watson, “it’s all in the mind, remember.” 

“I thoroughly agree with you,” said Rachel, heartily, 
“our physical state of being is precisely what we make it 
by bringing things upon ourselves by our wrong thoughts. 
That sounds brave, doesn’t it?” she said, turning to me 
and lowering her voice in which a husky note had appeared, 
“but, O, if you only knew how hard I have to work some- 
times to keep from thinking.” 

We all immediately entered into a heated discussion 
concerning the present day problems on the subject of New 
Thought. 

“What’s your opinion, Mac,” asked Dick, finally, turn- 
ing to Bruce, who had vouchsafed none whatsoever. 

“Liver” responded Bruce, shortly, “That one word 
answers the whole catalogue of questions. 

“You’re absolutely impossible, Bruce,” I told him, “I 
move that we either get out the card tables or else go home — 
I’ll be asleep at the switch in another minute.” 

“Do you mean to say that you ever fall asleep at parties, 
Nancy?” asked Elizabeth in feigned surprise, and I was 
actually too tired to pick up a book to throw at her. 

This morning Philip was enumerating the thousands 
whom he loves madly and kept dividing them into groups, 
as it were. 


[ 100 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“But whom do you love the very best of all?” I asked 
him. 

“You,” he answered, promptly, and then, thinking bet- 
ter of it, amended, “Well, I guess I really love God best and 
then you, but you’re in the same class with God.” 

February 4. 

Have just returned from the post oflSce where I was 
handed your welcome letter. Think of our Betsy Jane stand- 
ing up alone — time certainly moves along in rapid strides, 
though if it were strictly in the height of fashion, it would 
take shorter steps this year. But really you’ll soon have to 
be planning your daughter’s coming out gowns — have you 
decided on a ball or an afternoon reception? I’m for the 
ball and desire that my niece be attired in sea-foam green 
and silver — I’ll present her with the frock. 

Melia was at the post office devouring her weekly epistle; 
Rachel never seems to get any mail save a regular monthly 
check from some western bank but Melia gets a letter every 
Saturday from a sister-in-law in Texas and she always reads 
it at the Post Office and answers it there. 

I discovered when I reached my hut that a large and 
copious hole ornamented the heel of my left silk (note the 
adjective) stocking but a breath of solace was wafted over 
my discomfiture when I remembreed the words of one of 
our foremost actors — “A hole in one’s stocking may be an 
accident but a darn is premeditated poverty.” Nevertheless, 
I shall darn it with neatness and dispatch for if I didn’t 
do a large business in the lines of premeditated poverty, 
we would have been settled in the old people’s home long 
since. 

On the way home, I met the dignified Roberta, soaked to 
the skin, having tripped and fallen headlong into one of 
the enormous puddles that fill the roads and crossings, an 
aftermath of the late January thaw. I’d be sure that I’d have 
double pneumonia tomorrow if I got even my foot wet, but 
the Mistress of Fenway ambled slowly along in no whit 
ruffled or concerned as to the consequences of her impromtu 
bath. 

The little Lanes are following in mother’s footsteps and 
have a pretty fair knowledge of her ideas concerning the 
evil results of “bad thinks.” I refer to Marjorie and Ken- 
ton, for the tiny Gwendolyn is not yet old enough to have 
any ideas whatever. 


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A BIT O’ SILENCE 


We stopped at Fenway on Sunday, after a tramp 
through the snow to Rushton Pond, and found poor Ed, 
swathed in bandages suffering the tortures of the damned, 
with an ulcerated tooth. “Whatever is the matter with your 
poor father?” I asked Kenton, who was standing guard over 
Ed’s couch of pain. He looked at me, as though in wonder 
at my apparent lack of perception. “Why, Daddy’s got a 
‘hink’ ” he answered, and his tone implied implicit belief that 
the appellation covered the whole gamut of earthly ills. 

Garry was quoting Kenton’s logic at Anne’s last evening, 
where an impromptu party was in progress, whereupon 
Martin announced that he was likewise suffering from a cer- 
tain maddening species of toothache. “I seem to have a 
claim. Auntie Kate,” he said, seating himself beside the 
‘Colony Widow’ as he calls her, and whose beliefs are as 
firmly rooted as Roberta’s. 

“O, no you haven’t,” contradicted Kate, promptly, “there’s 
no sensation in matter, you know, and you must not hold 
such thoughts” and she launched forth into a brief desserta- 
tion on the joys and consistencies of her belief, while we all 
broke in with the most ridiculous arguments against it. You 
mustn’t think for a moment, Virginia, that we don’t respect 
Kate’s beautiful religion, for indeed we do, but it is such 
fun once in a while to try to tease her about it, but we never 
can though, for she meets all of our attacks with calm, 
unruffled mien — that’s part of her religion. 

“Well, the fact remains, that the cussed ivory is almost 
killing me” remarked Martin, finally, but Kate silenced him 
with a few soothing remarks. 

The Lady Letty lifted her lovely Irish eyes from the ab- 
sorbing game of Patience poker that she was playing with 
Anne. “Religions may come and religions may go, but Kate 
goes on forever” she said, with a forced and long-drawn 
sigh. 

“Well, she has the only consistent, hard and fast, dyed in 
the wool, time resisting, germ-proof religion among us,” de- 
clared Anne, firmly. “O — Where can I put this three of 
clubs?” 

Our Gilbert dancing lessons are an inspiration and a joy — 
fascinating is the word! Miss Knowles, our teacher, is the 
embodiment of grace and suppleness and has the gift of im- 
parting her knowledge of the various steps down to a fine 
point. We can hardly wait to get up to Fenway Farm each 


[ 102 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Friday where we have the lessons, Roberta having most 
graciously put her huge living room at Miss Knowles’ dis- 
posal. We do the Espanita, the Spanish lonesome, the darky 
Schottische and a host of other delightful dances. The Span- 
ish lonesome is the most bewitching of all and I think the 
name is so alluring, don’t you? Bill Shakespeare and I don’t 
agree at all about the extent of meaning in a name. There’s 
everything in a name, I think, and plays and books of un- 
doubted merit have oftimes failed utterly because of an un- 
suitable or uninteresting name, while as for children, their 
lives have been more or less marred many a time by the 
meaningless appelations fastened upon them; and usually in 
the hope that said cognomen will be the means of obtaining 
large amounts of filthy lucre from distant relatives or friends 
when the Good Lord shall have seen fit to call them. It is 
a great injustice and anyone with a fine or sensitive nature 
cannot help being more or less affected by the name which 
he is obliged to respond to fifty times a day. Don’t you re- 
member how poor Lava Miller had to go through life with 
that hideous title simply because her great aunt Lava gave 
her parents every assurance that her fortune would be left 
to her god-child. And then what did the old dame do but 
marry a callow youth when she was well past sixty, leaving 
nothing but a pair of very homely earings and an ancient 
and moth-eaten sampler to the poor child. You know great 
Aunt Lava’s name was derived from the fact that her parents 
spent their honeymoon in the shadow of Vesuvius. Would 
that it had emitted fire and brimstone from it’s snoot in 
large quantities and buried them under it ! 

Sylvia Eastman is spending a week with me. Buttercup 
being filled to overflowing, and I do so enjoy having her. 
She is not only a continual feast to the eye but is such an 
adaptable and comprehensive sort of guest. Languishing 
swains go past the house in droves, trying to appear uncon- 
cerned and as though they hadn’t the faintest idea that she 
was here. Well, they can do the Gay Lothario act as much 
as they please as long as they don’t follow young Lochinvar’s 
example and take her away from me. 

Phil didn’t want to get up this morning stating that he 
preferred to stay in bed longer as he didn’t want to leave 
God, who was teaching him to “work the raser fing.” It 
developed that he had been dreaming of a sojourn in heaven 
with God who showed him how He brought the night to us. 


[ 103 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“You know,” said Philip, his eyes like blue saucers, 
“every night God slides a ‘raser fing just like a blackboard 
’raser, right across the sun till it’s all gone and that makes 
the dark be here.” 

According to Phil, his Instructor was attired in white 
bloomers and a blue blouse and had gold sparks in His hair. 

“And He was so kind and nice and pretty,” concluded 
Philip, “and He patted my head and said He loved little boys 
and girls more den anyfing in the whole world.” Precious 
baby; maybe it will be given unto him at some future time 
to throw a little light into the dark abyss of our groping 
doubt and misunderstanding and help solve the great enigma 
of life. 

Betty and Jerry and Mother Van and Mr. Horton were 
out here Sunday and Betty told us that their lion of the 
office force had gone where the good lions go. They bore it 
until everyone had called and until they were on the verge 
of nervous prostration and then in a fit of desperation, sicked 
Timmie, their Boston terrier, at it, and he did his duty 
well. The children were delighted to have their “more- 
mama” for a whole day and climbed all over her, serenely 
indifferent to her suit from the Rue de Blanc. I have always 
thought that Nancy’s name for mother Van was the cunning- 
est thing I ever heard a grandmother called and there being 
such a superfluity of grandmothers I she had two great- 
grandmothers then, you know) I presume it seemed the 
most natural name in the world. Really mother Van had 
more of the care of my baby than I did for the first two 
years and was certainly all that a grandmother ought to be, 
and more. Mothers-in-law may be undesirable possessions 
in some cases but I wouldn’t take a King’s domain for mine. 

I heard Nancy inquiring of Jessamine Jones yesterday if 
the Leeks were really going to move away and in a haughty 
tone Miss Jessamine replied, “I’ve heard so but I won’t speak 
of it as Mama doesn’t allow me to discuss the neighbors — 
things get around . so in Stormfield.’’ She must be some 
relation to the little girl who, when her mother asked her 
if she had told God how naughty she had been and asked 
Him to forgive her, retorted, “No, for it would be all over 
Heaven if I did.” 

February 18. 

Rachel and her faithful Melia and Copper are here for 
a while and Copper has thrown Ethel Barrymore, our cat. 


[ 104 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


into a succession of interesting fits. We simply made 
Rachel come for they were so snowed in at Lotus Cottage 
that it was positively unsafe; a lot of the lads dug them out 
and we persuaded them to pack up a few clothes and make 
us an indefinite visit. Rachel is restless, however, and wants 
to get back to her isolation, I know, though of course she 
doesn’t say so. She simply permeates every room she enters 
with her wonderful personality; I never knew what magnet- 
ism meant before, though I thought I did. She has a quick 
temper, however, and flares up easily but it is really her 
only bad fault and she has it under perfect control. Her 
sense of justice is paramount and so often noticeable. It’s 
always “but would that be perfectly fair, do you think?” 
or “it doesn’t seem to me that that’s a square deal, exactly.” 
She reminds me so much of mother in that respect and in 
many other ways. You know it has so often been said of 
mother that she never was known to say an unkind word 
of anyone. I asked her once how she kept from doing so, 
impulsively or unthinkingly, sometimes, and she answered, 
“Nancy, dear, when I was a tiny girl, your grandfather gave 
me a beautiful rule to follow and I have never forgotten it. 
He told me to keep clear of personalities as much as possible 
and never to say anything about anyone without first asking 
myself these questions; Is it kind? Is it true? Is it neces- 
sary?” 

Of course, that’s all very well for dear, quiet, beautiful 
mother but. Heavens above, my jaws would ossify from lack 
of exercise if I followed that advice literally. 

Now I planned to give up talking about people for Lent, 
but I seem to have forgotten my resolution, for I find myself 
criticizing Mrs. Larrabee’s hat and Mrs. Dill’s nursery curri- 
culum when I might better be otherwise employed. Really, 
Virginia, we are all too hasty and ready to judge others, 
not stopping to realize that we ourselves are far from per- 
fect. What food for thought is expressed in those beautiful 
lines — (I’ve forgotten who wrote them) : 

‘In men whom men condemn as ill, 

I find so much of goodness still; 

In men, whom men pronounce divine 
I find so much of sin and blot 
I hesitate to draw the line 
Between the two, where God has not.’ 


[ 105 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


The Vale baby is a darling and the perfect image of Ned, 
who idolizes her. She has his same wonderful curling eye- 
lashes, too. 

Natalie Barton spent yesterday here and entertained us 
wdth tales of her father’s Aunt Vite who is visiting them; 
she comes about once in five years and looks precisely as if 
she had stepped out of one of Dicken’s novels. She arrived 
Sunday night and rode every bit of the way from the station 
to Lenhurst Park sitting on her trunk in the express wagon 
for fear it would go astray; she arrived about midnight after 
they had given up all hopes of her coming at all. Natalie and 
Ethel visited her last year and had the funniest sort of ex- 
periences. She made them use brown sugar for everything 
as it was cheaper (and she has all kinds of money, the 
girls say) and one night when some guests were there for 
tea she filled up the half empty bowl with white sugar and 
the bowl being glass it didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to 
discover at least one of Auntie’s economies. Aunt Vite’s 
twin was Aunt Dite — Lovisa and Lodisa being the unab- 
breviated forms, I believe. Dite passed on many years ago 
and no wonder; it is remarkable that even one survived the 
shock. 

Anne and Lennie dropped in last night bent upon devot- 
ing the evening to auction bridge and, as usual, toward the 
dusky hour of midnight they demanded food — and food, last 
night, meant pie. 

“But there is no pie in the house, Lennie,” I protested, 
“do eat up these hard fried cakes, they will be divine with 
coffee.” 

“Obviously then, if there is no pie in the finished state, 
it remains for us to make some,” said Anne, loftily ignoring 
my remark. “P/e we want and pie we’re going to have — 
come on Lennie, get the board and rolling pin and I will go 
on a still hunt for lard — Nancy is looking peevish so prob- 
ably won’t tell us where it is, and you know she changes the 
location of the staple articles of food in this house as often 
as she changes her mind.” 

“Well, I have to, in order to forestall foraging neighbors,” 
I explained, “for they get so worn out looking for what 
they want that they give it up and go elsewhere and then 
we have food for our own dinner.” 

They decided on apple pie so Len recklessly pared and 
sliced many of my cherished Northern Spies while Anne 


[ 106 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


made the crust. Pie was browning prettily when Anne, who 
was looking through cup-boards gave a prolonged shriek of 
joy — “Len, darling!” she exclaimed, “here’s a perfectly good 
can of cherries — quick, take the pie out of the oven, scoup 
out the apples and we’ll place the cherries upon it’s baby 
brow. I like cherry pie so much better.” 

“Are you quite crazy or merely maudlin?” I inquired, but 
Len, no whit taken aback, obediently rescued the pie, lifted 
the top crust daintily and removing the apple filling, poured 
in the cherries and, would you believe it? the pie we sat 
down to at 1.30 A. M. was a veritable triumph of culinary 
art. I have always thought that Isabel Langdon and her 
frying pan performances in the line of ham — eggs — pop- 
overs or any other suggested article of food at 2.30 A. M. 
took the palm — but it’s every day routine compared to Anne. 

Early in the evening the Larrabees had called but we 
made quick work of them and I was on pins and needles 
for fear the boys would openly insult them and disgrace 
themselves for life. Mrs. L. was in one of her lofty moods 
and made futile efforts to impress us with her superior 
knowledge of all things ancient and modern and intermedi- 
ary, but it didn’t work. 

“The brain of the average youth of the present day is 
so saturated with various little smatterings of all the branch- 
es of learning that it is positively unable to concentrate upon 
any one thing and the result is mental chaos and ineffici- 
ency,” remarked our guest, apropos of nothing, after a pro- 
longed silence broken only by twitterings from Garry and 
Anne. “I really believe,” she continued, “that the old fashion- 
ed gray matter is changing color also.” 

“O, why, of course it is,” said Len, “it probably has a 
perfectly natural desire to keep up with the times and after 
running the whole gamut of old-time dove-gray, later pearl, 
then elephant’s breath, London smoke and taupe, it has 
worked around gradually into lavender and royal purple 
and is now endeavoring to get the latest shade of blue. I’ve 
heard sis talking of Copenhagen and Cobalt blue, so I sup- 
pose it’s one of those. 

“O, don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?” sang 
Garry rudely and Len announced that he was sure that Alice 
was the shade of his thinking material. 

“If you were a younger man, Mr. Watson,” said the un- 
ruffled Mrs. L., “I should advise you to take up the potential 


[ 107 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


influences of antediluvian research as the concentrated study 
of it requires close application and good sequential memory 
Brother Del was remarkably well informed along those lines; 
Del was so fond of antedatal scrutiny, you know.” 

“What is that? Something to eat?” asked the incorri- 
gible Lennie, affecting a most interested attitude. 

“Where do you buy those?” asked wicked Anne, “Fd 
like to get some with my Fair money.” 

They were all most disrespectful but it is safe to say that 
the dear dull Larrabees never tumbled. 

I wonder how much longer we are all going to be kept 
in the dark as regards Rachel. Sometimes I am sure she is 
on the point of confiding in me but just as I think that she’s 
going to give me the privilege of sharing her trouble, what- 
ever it may be, she makes some commonplace remark about 
the weather or suggests a smart idea for a dinner gown and 
I’m exactly where I was before. Garry says he doesn’t see 
what earthly difference it makes whether any of us ever 
know or not but thinks we ought to thank our lucky stars 
that things continue as they are so long as we can keep 
Rachel in our midst. Selfish creature ! he doesn’t seem to rea- 
lize that it’s all one-sided and that Rachel is getting nothing 
out of it whatsoever. Still she thanks me times without 
number for having been the means of bringing so much into 
her empty life. 

“Nancy,” she said only last evening, while we were wait- 
ing for Garry to come up from the station, “I sometimes 
wonder if you all think me affected or silly or pig-headed 
in not speaking of my past life, but I simply cannot, dear, 
I cannot and that is all there is about it. I often try and it’s 
no use, but when the time is ripe I will and in the meantime, 
I thank the Dear Lord every blessed day for giving me such 
wonderful friends — I had thought that I could fight my bat- 
tle in solitude but I never in the world could have done it.” 

It is getting late; Garry has fallen asleep in his big chair, 
the cat is snoozing in the flickering glow of the dying fire, 
and the snow is falling softly on the already heaped-up 
drifts. Good-night. 


March 2. 

The most tragic thing happened last night — one of those 
unforseen little things that apparently mean nothing, yet in 
reality tear your heart from it’s moorings. Rachel was sit- 


[ 108 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


ting in the firelight on the big mission settle, holding Phil on 
her lap and cuddling him close to her. Suddenly, and with- 
out a moment’s warning, he looked up into her face and said, 
“Lady, dear, why don’t you have a husband like my mother 
does, and a little boy like me?” 

Rachel made not a sound, but putting the child down 
quickly, fled from the room and up the stairs. I could have 
cried and poor little Phil was so bewildered that he did cry. 
Of course it couldn’t be helped but it was just too awful. 
Rachel didn’t come down again during the evening and Gil- 
bertine, Patty, Garry and I played a few rubbers of frightful 
bridge. This morning however Rachel, dear thing that she 
is, acted as though nothing whatever had occurred and was 
especially tender to Philip. 

Of course you’ve heard the heart-rending news about Janet 
Brighton. It’s unspeakably sad and a crushing blow to them 
all. Don is inconsolable but very full of courage through it 
all. I never knew of such devotion between a brother and 
sister as exemplified by those two, and to have Janet taken 
now when they were planning the trip abroad together seems 
pretty hard. Just twenty, and so fresh and bright and spark- 
ling with life and vivacity. O, aren’t automobiles deadly 
things? I went right in, of course, and Don just put his head 
on my shoulder and gave vent to the most awful dry sort of 
agony that I ever saw. I feel almost worse for him than 
for the father and mother, though they worshipped the child. 

“Nancy, do you want to know how I bear it at all?” he 
asked, “Why I don’t end my misery and go Ynth her?” 

“Yes, Don, dear,” I answered, “though I know it is be- 
cause you are so big and fine that you know it’s all part 
of the Great Plan and that God needs our dear girl more 
than we do and has a special work for her with Him, and 
anyway ‘To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.’ ” 

“I know, but that’s not it. Nan. The only reason that I’m 
able to live through it at all is that I haven’t one regret to 
torture myself with, not a remembrance of one unkindness, 
nor can I reproach myself for a single act or word in my 
whole life that made her unhappy. O, how thankful I am 
that I was never impatient with my darling or unreason- 
able or cross as others were, so often, for with all our 
love we knew she wasn’t perfect and adored her all the more 
for it.” 


[ 109 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


I have pondered long on Don’s words which are so true. 
Surely it behooves us all to do the little act of kindness and 
say the tender word now, doesn’t it? and not try to make up 
for it when it is too late by weeping buckets of tears and 
putting millions into a tombstone. After I reached home I 
was telling them all about it and how it seemed to soothe 
Mrs. Brighton when I reminded her of those comforting 
words; “There is no new sorrow; we shall not be called up- 
on to bear anything that has not been borne before.” 

“I think that is untrue,” said Rachel quietly, ‘T think 
there are individual sorrows, peculiar to people of certain 
temperaments, that would not be sorrows to some so could 
not be classed as such, and anyway, the fact that another was 
experiencing a similar trial wouldn’t help an atom.” 

“O, misery always likes company,” said Garry, unthink- 
ingly, and then flushed pitifully as he noticed Rachel’s pain- 
ed face. But Rachel, with her fine perception, knew that he 
meant no unkindness and a little later, when Garry said to 
her “Rachel, if you ever need anyone you know you can 
count on me,” just put her two hands on his shoulders and 
answered, “You didn’t have to tell me so. Van dear, I knew 
it.” 


Dr. Colt dropped in for a minute today to take inventory, 
as it were. Garry is always giving him the tip to run in 
and see how we look and act without telling us. He thinks 
I look slightly below the mark and lectured me severely on 
the subject of over-doing; says I’ll have an attack of Ameri- 
canitis if I don’t let down on the social game a bit. I in- 
sisted that I rarely went out and that I belonged to but one 
or two things and you should have heard him reel off the 
things that I do belong to — Metaphysical club, Woman’s 
Suffrage, Episcopal Guild, Gilbert dancing. Bridge club, liter- 
ary society and several more and I had to own up to every 
one of them. It seems his cunning wife had given him the 
list before he left home — wasn’t that smart? Mrs. Colt is a 
fine girl and I like her immensely — ^she seems to have all the 
attributes necessary to be the successful wife of a physician 
and you know all the trials and tribulations of that position. 
And by the same token, I have every intention of becoming 
a “Xtian Scientist” as Marsh Granger says, it’s much saner 
and easier and altogether simpler (with apologies to Bill) and 
lastly but not leastly so much cheaper. 


[ 110 ] 


Fenway Farm 






A BIT O’ SILENCE 


They are going to adopt for darling Janet’s headstone, 
the beautiful inscription that Garry and I saw in an old 
burying-ground in Rome when we were there on our honey- 
moon: 

“Here lies Felicita, who, having laid up a large 
fortune in Paradise, has gone thither to enjoy 
it.” 

March 14. 

The top of the morning, Virginia, dear! Your birthday; 
may it be a most happy one and may you have many more, 
each one happier than the last. I hope it’s as pleasant there 
as here today, for in Stormfield it is perfect weather. A 
morning full of hints of hyacinths and crocuses and pregnant 
with possibilities of coming spring. The soft breeze seems 
laden with a subtle suggestion of unseen fragrance and the 
air is heavenly. I am sending you three of those princess 
work aprons that you like so much and feel sure that they 
will fit like the paper on the wall. Rachel said that she 
never knew before that kitchen aprons could be stylish but 
these prove that they can. She insisted upon putting in the 
pair of silk stockings, saying that the insane desire for them 
probably runs in the family and I couldn’t persuade her 
that they would be more appreciated here. 

Rachel led the Metaphysical meeting at Sally’s yesterday 
and it was beautifully done. Her topic was “Fear” — she chose 
it because she considers it the most vital thing that we have 
to contend with and one of the most powerful enemies of 
the advancement of human intelligence along psychic lines. 
She endeavored to show that Fear is a tyrant — a deadly thing 
that must be conquered before any research into scientific 
things is begun. And before anyone can hope to overcome 
the enemy he must learn the first principles of faith. She 
believes, Virginia, that if we could but realize that we de- 
liberately bring trouble upon ourselves by fearing it and al- 
lowing our minds to dwell upon it, a great deal would be 
accomplished. “Once let a dreaded idea gain supremacy in 
your mind and it will play the tyrant until common sense 
and right thinking come into their own.” Do you remember 
where your darling Emerson says “He has not learned the 
lesson of life who does not every day surmount a fear?” 
Well, there’s the whole thing in a nut-shell, Rachel says; 
simply to take things easy, as it were, and not try to compre- 
hend the whole thing in a day, but to gradually feel our way 


[ 111 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


and by the process of elimination dispel every little lingering 
fear from our minds. She likes Angelo Mosso’s idea and it 
probably appeals to you, too, being a doctor’s wife, that Fear 
is a disease to be cured and he bids us set about it by af- 
firming that there is nothing to fear and before we know it 
there will be nothing. She found a beautiful little thing in 
one of Roberta’s magazines and told us that it would be a 
good thing to repeat every morning: “The Spirit of the Lord 
goes before me and makes safe and secure all the way.” 
Just say that over a few times, Virginia, and really you will 
feel calm and quiet and have a singular sensation of peace. 

I do wish that I could believe as Rachel does and also 
Anne and Kate and Roberta but while I enjoy sitting on the 
fence and watching the game of life on either side, I guess 
when the betting begins I’ll have to put all mine on Father 
William for I agree with him thoroughly as regards the dis- 
position of things: “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, 
rough hew them how we will.” I believe you. Bill, there is. 

Several of us called on Mrs. Larrabee (after eating all of 
Sally’s fruit cake and making the third filling of her huge 
tea-pot necessary), and to our mingled sensations of relief 
and disappointment, she was not at home, because we’d all 
planned to supplement Sally’s feast with some of Mrs. Larra- 
bee’s delicatessen effects for she can cook. I discovered when 
I reached home that she had called on me in my absence. 
She might have known that I’d be out except that she doesn’t 
seem to know anything ever under any circumstances, but 
she’s a good soul and always asks us to her parties and really 
gives us a jolly good time while we all consume large quanti- 
ties of her wonderful nut bread and various other articles of 
real food. She never seems at ease with herself, though, and 
makes others uncomfortable on that account. I wish I could 
describe her to you aptly, but do you remember Mark Twain’s 
description of a certain woman? — it ran something like this: 
“She isn’t exactly a refined woman, neither is she unrefined; 
she’s the kind of woman who keeps a parrot.” Well, Mrs. 
Larrabee isn’t exactly a refined woman and she isn’t exactly 
unrefined, but she’s the kind of woman who says “infant” in 
speaking of a baby and calls a night gown a “garment” — you 
know the kind, “they come from Sheffield!” 

Early Monday morning the Wende’s house at the corner 
caught fire and wild confusion reigned supreme. We were 
awakened by shouts and screams and looked out just as the 


[ 112 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


volunteer fire department hove in sight. Needless to say, we 
grabbed some clothes and dashed to the scene of action. All 
of Stormfield appeared as if by magic (as people always do 
when there’s a fire) and, in various stages of dishabille, fell 
to and worked like beavers. The wind was not at all like 
today’s, but a cold, biting March northeaster and the thinly 
clad workers and spectators felt it to the marrow. Norah 
came flying up after us with Nancy and Phil in their “trailing 
garments of the night” and overcoats, bringing up the rear. 
We all tore into Anne’s house and made many pots of hot 
coffee for the firemen and, really, I think it did more than a 
little good. Dear, quick-witted, thoughtful Anne; at the first 
shout of “fire,” she ran down and put on the tea-kettle and 
every pan that the stove would hold, full of water to heat for 
coffee, while the rest of us thought first of our own property. 
The fire wasn’t very disastrous and as everything was fully in- 
sured it might have been a lot worse. I wish you might have 
seen Martin Brinkerhoff dash in and come out with a huge 
Mercury poised in one hand and a bowl of gold fish in the 
other. Of course, in the excitement, many worthless pieces 
of modern furniture were carefully deposited in places of 
safety, while some perfectly good old mahogany was left to 
it’s fiery fate. I must now make tracks for the Post Office 
and mail this; here’s hoping that I get large armfuls of mail. 
I don’t dare put on my pet raincoat for Garry has lain down 
the law in regard to my wearing it in public again. He says 
the only thing now to be done with it is to have it rendered. 

Philip said yesterday that he wishes you would ask Betsey 
Jane if she doesn’t think that God used awfully “jelicious”^ 
skin when he made mothers’ necks. 

I expect to be very busy for the next couple of weeks so 
don’t look for many manuscripts from Stormfield; I’ll try to 
fill the gap with postal cards, though, but won’t attempt to 
get as much on them as Aunt Molly does; you know Dad al- 
ways said that she ought to be ashamed to defraud the 
United States Government, sending the story of her life for 
one cent. 

Are you glad that Billy isn’t going to Honolulu after all? 
Foolish question. No. 44,497,683. 

Mar. 30. 

Just to think that my precious Betsey Jane is one year 
old today and I’ve not yet seen her — but I haven’t much 
longer to wait for that sweet privilege and can hardly control 


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my impatience until you get here. I’ve told everybody that 
you have at last consented to tear yourself away from Billy 
for a brief interval and they are all so anxious to meet you 
and many little affairs are actually planned already. Gilber- 
tine is going to give a little dinner and you may consider your- 
self fortunate at being the guest of honor at a Buttercup din- 
ner. Kate Watson is a wonder in the culinary line and Gil- 
bertine a close second, and of course, a domestic science 
graduate. Her candy is a thing to be marvelled at — believe 
me — such fudge, such cocoanut creams, such caramels and 
such vari-flavored cream wafers you have never yet eaten. 
I’m sure; you may have your nectar and ambrosia but give 
me Gilbertine’s candy every time. We are also to spend a 
day at Fenway Farm and Anne is planning one of her home- 
like teas. 

Some of us, under Mrs. Albright’s direction, are going to 
be in a play for charity at the Opera House in May — just a 
little one act affair that is to be a part of a vaudeville pro- 
gramme. Mrs. Albright asked me if I could get some friends 
to do some little stunt and I immediately thought of Ward 
and Chester and they said they would be delighted to partici- 
pate. “All the world’s a stage” to Ward, who is always cav- 
orting about and doing some antic and of course you know 
that Chester has been on the professional stage. They are 
going to get up some little skit and with Ward’s prowess at 
the piano and Chester’s wonderful voice it will surely make 
a hit. We have begun rehearsals as we want the perfor- 
mance to run smoothly and we’ve all entered into the spirit 
of the thing and are having a circus. Garry is to be Patty’s 
husband, they being a bride and groom of three months, while 
I am a little French maid, engaged to the English butler, who 
is impersonated by Cliff Albright, the heir to the Albright 
millions. By the way, Len Watson’s son has appeared on 
the scene of Stormfield’s activity and is making himself very 
much at home under the grandparental roof and they have 
made him very welcome. He’s a queer lad and public senti- 
ment seems to be against him. I can’t make him out at all 
— there’s a wild and uncouth streak in him and yet a strain 
of gentleness and refinement withal; but of course he’s had a 
great deal to contend with in the way of a broken up home 
and unhappy parents and that fact is responsible for a great 
deal that is lacking in his make-up. 

Some one said the other day that all his short-comings 
and wild ways were entirely the fault of his own nature for 


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his mother had always lavished everything upon him. Now 
how inconsistent right on the face of it; if his mother had 
done her part, he wouldn’t have turned out the disappoint- 
ment that he is. She probably did all her lavishing in the 
line of clothes, food, travel, and tutors and fell short when 
it came to the question of love and comprehension. “Them’s 
my sentiments” and when I expressed my views to Garry he 
said that he considered me most unreasonable and one-sided 
in my idea of the question. 

“Why, it stands to reason, dear,” he argued, “that if 
there was any good in the boy he would have responded to it 
in some measure at least.” 

“Not necessarily,” I answered, “there’s a vast difference 
in the various natures of human beings and the extent to 
which they are affected by the actions of others; and cer- 
tainly if Phil turns out a hopeless failure, I shall hold myself 
and you also very much to blame. For we will be, don’t you 
think?” 

Garry thought — but failed to give me the benefits of the 
workings of his mind; however I hold to the opinion that 
there is some real good in every one of God’s creatures and 
I feel sure that there is something fine and noble in that 
boy and I intend to discover it too. 

I ran into Anne’s for a moment this morning and in- 
quired solicitously for the welfare of the zoo — as one has to 
do in order to keep in the lady’s good graces. All of the 
menagerie appeared to be in the best of health and the live- 
stock sphere most tranquil, save for a recent tragedy in the 
aquarium. It seems that Cain and Abel, the two gold fish, 
had apparently been on the best of terms, but yesterday Cain, 
without a moment’s warning, ate up Abel, and is now swim- 
ming around in solitary glory in his bowl. But Anne says 
that, while she greatly deplores his fate, she is weak on the 
subject of artistic finishes and that was the only consistent 
ending to Abel’s checkered career. 

It is unkind to laugh at deformities, I know, but the 
Larrabee’s latest acquisition is a Jap chef who stutters (they 
have talked of one ever since they were in California, last 
year) and the Dills’ new housekeeper, while a dear old soul, 
is very Scotch, very ancient, and has no roof to her mouth, 
and the two have taken quite a fancy to each other and to 
hear (also see) them conversing together is too, too much. 
As usual, I disgraced myself yesterday when calling infor- 
mally on “Mrs. Archibald.” Happy Jappy had come over to 


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initiate the highland lassie into the secret of cooking fowl 
so deliciously in the flowery kingdom and of course, as you 
might know, I happened into the kitchen for a glass of water 
just in time to hear the lady repeating some directions after 
him. It sounded, Virginia, exactly as though a disabled au- 
tomobile were being tow^ed unwillingly to the garage and I 
simply couldn’t contain myself — I tried to explain that I was 
subject to choking fits and had them several times a day, 
and took a hasty and undignified departure. Although they 
were very nice about it I am really afraid to go out of doors 
alone for fear the Jap will fly at me and try some Jiu Jitsu 
effects in a spirit of revenge. 

I’ll now stop this ranting and array myself suitably for 
the evening. I have often been severely criticised for fussing 
so much about my clothes but I fail to see the idea of spend- 
ing hours dressing for strangers and looking any old way 
about one’s home. I try to take just as much pains when I 
am to be alone with Garry and the children as when I am 
going out. That’s one of the things I so admire in Rachel. 
Up there in that cottage and with no incentive to make any 
effort, she always looks neat and attractive and has her hair 
prettily arranged. This letting go so completely that so many 
indulge in is a sad mistake, I think and frequently indicates 
a laxity in one’s mental caliber. Of course, I believe in rea- 
son in all things and do not advocate straining a point or mak- 
ing undue effort for a desired effect, but by making little 
things of this sort part and parcel of our daily life they soon 
cease to be an effort but rather a decided pleasure. 

May is a delightful month always, with its budding trees 
and blossoms — its wealth of violets and its errant gypsy 
breezes but this coming May is a red-letter month in the 
calendar of my life for its coming means your coming and 
yOur coming means the coming of Betsey Jane! 


April 15. 

“Curses on my fatal beauty!” Yesterday afternoon I put 
the finishing touches to my new red gown and dashed care- 
lessly down to dinner expecting to make an instantaneous hit 
but — not so. Garry’s face was a queer mixture of surprise 
and disapproval and the children immediately piped in 
unison, “That red dress isn’t pretty, mother, wear your blue 
one.” 

“Which blue one?” I snapped, “that’s all I have — blue, 
blue, blue, until I’m getting blind to all other colors. I love 


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blue and it’s my favorite color always but why can’t I ever 
have anything else? There’s no use trying, though, for the 
minute I’m strong minded enough to don another shade 
you all fly at me with a perfect volley of uncomplimentary 
remarks.” 

“But really. Nan dear,” began Garry in a most concilia- 
tory tone, “you’re a dream in blue and it just suits you, you 
know; red is not your color and I detest it and had I known 
that you were contemplating such a concoction I would have 
nipped it in the bud.” 

“Would that you had, then,” I retorted, “and saved me 
many hours of frenzied sewing; I’m certainly not going to 
throw it away for its made in just my style and I love it,” by 
this time on the verge of tears. 

“I suppose you’re going to make your eyes red now, to 
match, so you’ll be a symphony in scarlet, as it were,” sug- 
gested my sweet and gentle husband and I was about to give 
way to my pent up rage and disappointment when Patty 
came in with Howard Brooks. 

“How darling you look, Nancy!” they both exclaimed in 
unison, “where did you get that adorable dress?” 

I burst into a beatific smile and cast a trimphant glance 
at Garret Schuyler Van Clief and replied with exaggerated 
carelessness — “O, it’s just a little thing I put together the 
other day. Do you really like it?” 

“It’s a pippin,” said Howard, helping himself to a large 
piece of chocolate cake and demanding a cup of coffee to go 
with it. 

“It is perfectly precious,” said Patty, warmly, “but I will 
admit on second thought that it’s not very becoming to you 
— there’s no doubt about it, Nancy, blue’s your color.” 

Well, he who laughs last and so forth and so on, but 
Garry was decent enough not to crow but entered into an 
animated discussion with Howard about the relative merits 
of the Newark and Buffalo teams for the coming baseball 
season. However, he won the day as usual, and just be- 
tween you and me and the lamp post I believe I’ll get some 
dye and try my luck at changing the hue of the bone of con- 
tention. 

Half the colony flocked into Buttercup Cottage last 
evening and requested that several packs of cards be pro- 
duced and that much food be forthcoming later in the even- 
ing; we told Kate how we had all met at Morton’s soda foun- 


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tain and felt just like a party and the lot of hostess had 
fallen to her. 

“You were unanimously chosen, dear lady,” said Bruce, 
elegantly, bowing to the floor. 

“Well, I fear you’ll regret your choice when you discover 
the state of the refrigerator,” she answered, but found plenty 
after all. Some of the boys had to borrow cups from Letty 
and a couple of card tables from Esther but borrowing on all 
occasions is part of the usual program out here. Nothing is 
exempt and it is so nice to feel that your friends think enough 
of you to ask for anything. 

Did I tell you how I looked in vain for my little violet mull 
one evening lately when I had come back from town, tired 
and dusty, and wanted to put on something thin? Finally, 
Norah, hearing me going wildly through clothes presses and 
bureau drawers, called up — “O, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. 
Van Clief, that Miss Tennant was in this afternoon and took 
that lavender dress of yours to wear to a dance tonight.” 

Last evening, while we were waiting for the crab meat 
to bake, Anne picked up the lovely book of quotations that 
Aunt Judith made for me and which Gilbertine had bor- 
rowed, and read aloud the poet’s query: “What is real 

good?” And you know the answer, “Kindness is the word.” 

“That’s the truest sentiment ever expressed,” said Anne, 
vehemently, “there is nothing in Heaven or Earth like pure, 
unadulterated kindness — the big, broad, far-reaching tender- 
ness that accepts without parley or question and doesn’t 
weigh the worthiness of the case.” 

“It’s true that kindness has done much to brighten 
human lives,” said Letty, “and has even been the means of 
saving a life or one’s reason on occasion, but I echo Carlyle’s 
sentiment in calling ‘sincerity, great, grand sincerity, the 
greatest attribute.’ ” 

Rosamond said that she thought love and forgiveness 
should have first place but Anne informed her that kindness 
covered both those characteristics. 

“I’m with the dreamer in the poem,” said Bart Marston, 
“and put ditto marks under his idea of ‘freedom’ for it in- 
cludes so many things.” 

“The page and I go hand in hand,” said Roberta, “for 
beauty is the realest and can do the most good in the end, 
and anyone of keen perception will readily see that beauty 
embraces the whole category.” 


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“It usually does,” said Kate, with a twinkle, “but I’m for 
the law court and its ‘order’ for I’m minus my book of cross- 
stitch rules just through some one’s lack of understanding 
of the word and am ready to annihilate the whole family, for 
I have all those peacock towels to do for Marion Crandall and 
am helpless without it.” 

“Garry had kept silent through the discussion but at 
this juncture remarked, dryly: “Those ideas are all very 
beautiful if you know what you’re talking about but in my 
opinion Friend O’Reilly has omitted the most important 
thing of all — money; why, brothers and sisters and uncles 
and aunts, it’s the art of amassing the spondulux, the 
shekels, the hard, flinty coin that counts in this world and 
nothing else can hold a candle to it. You poetic ones can 
think as you please but you know I’m telling the truth when 
I say that it’s the ‘man with the dough’ who gets there every- 
time. The world appreciates cleverness, it bows before 
beauty and takes its hat off to genius and fame but it kow- 
tows and salaams and falls on its knees before the magic 
word ‘money’ and that’s as true as eternity.” 

Think of that from my Garry! I felt like the wife of an 
old pessimist but a moment later Nancy fell out of bed with 
a crash and Garry flew up the stairs three at a time and 
when I got there he was holding his daughter in his arms 
and kissing her bumped head and the look on his face and 
the tone of his voice set all my fears about Garry’s cynicism 
at rest. 

‘Nobody asked my opinion and I didn’t volunteer it, but 
I’ll tell you, Virginia, what I consider life’s greatest posses- 
sion and that is ‘youth.’ All the other things have their 
rightful place and even Garry’s sordid money means power 
and can buy nearly everything, happiness frequently and 
ofttimes health or the means to it, hut ‘youth’ is the greatest 
of them all — a veritable gift of the gods, for desire and am- 
bition and enthusiasm go hand in hand with it, dancing 
along life’s road-way, and nothing seems hopeless, impossi- 
ble, or out of reach. 

“What’s the matter with Kate this evening?” asked Bob 
Thornton, “the beautiful lady doesn’t seem as sprightly as 
usual.” 

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter with Kate,” answered our 
hostess, for herself, “I’ve spent most of this glorious day in 
the dentist’s chair and the man nearly annihilated me — my 
religion notwithstanding. I dread going so and this morn- 


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ing I lay in my bed and prayed that I’d die and wouldn’t 
have to go but I couldn’t seem to die and so I went. He 
hammered and dug at live nerves and prowled around in pas- 
tures new until I could stand it no longer. ‘Now look here’ 
I said to him, ‘are you going to work among the quick or 
the dead — I must know before another move is made.” 
‘The dead’ he answered in a rather terrified voice, so I told 
him he might go on. And this poor feeble wraith that you see 
before you,” she concluded, “is what is left of a once very 
beautiful woman.” 

Anne and Roberta were so tired last night that they both 
fell asleep with plates of food in their hands; they had been 
out all day helping a poor dying woman through her last 
hours and cooking for the little children and cleaning up 
the dirty house. It is a regular thing with them and with 
so many out here; really this town is full of the milk of 
human kindness and when anyone is in trouble, everybody 
joins forces and goes to the rescue. And when I think, 
Virginia, of how far a little hit will reach and how much a 
tiny bit will do — whether it be material aid or the tactful, 
loving deed, it makes me blush for shame that I do so little. 

“And just one word, if said for love’s sweet sake, may 
save a soul.” 

April 30. 

“The die is cast” — yes, really it is; I purchased a package 
of black dye and Norah and I set to yesterday and the pass- 
ing of the scarlet gown was accomplished with greatest suc- 
cess. And the black crepe de chine gown is not to be sneer- 
ed at, either. I added a few touches of gold and pale blue 
panne velvet and it’s a thing of beauty, neat, but not gaudy, 
as Patty says — “cum sah!” I shan’t tell Garry a thing about 
it but will flaunt my black effect before his astonished eyes 
and keep him guessing as to the fate of the much-abused red. 
Rachel were here all day yesterday and made quick work 
of a two weeks’ accumulation of darning for me. I appre- 
ciate it very much for she loaths sewing in every shape and 
form. I told her of your great antipathy to it and how you 
always said that a paper pattern was a perfect Chinese puz- 
zle to you and Rachel says that you and she would be kindred 
souls. 

Really it is marvelous the way she broadens and expands 
under her burden. So often sorrow simply hardens but I 
can see the fine grain of Rachel’s nature very clearly through 


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its veneer of bravado and can watch the progress of a won- 
derful growth. Every day she seems bigger and finer than 
before and while her weight of trouble is crushing her in 
one way, it is uplifting her in another. It is a revelation to 
me for it has been my experience in reading character that, 
as a rule, happiness is all-sustaining while trouble and sor- 
row crush and break, even though the victims learn, before 
they have travelled very far on the Road of Life, to bow to 
the inevitable. 

Patty and I are planning to go down to Ithaca in May 
for the Cornell-Michigan game and though it is weeks off we 
can’t talk of anything else — save your coming. Garry and 
Karl are to trot along with us and we are planning a most 
interesting day. Loring plays on the Michigan nine, of 
course, and our adorable Sliv Chaddock on the Cornell team. 
“Aye, there’s the rub!” I want Loring to win, certainly, 
and yet Sliv is a Stormfield boy and we are to be with his 
father and mother at the field; well, I won’t cross any bridges 
before I come to them, but I do wish both sides could win. 

Wednesday was a busy day, indeed. Anne, Rachel, Mrs. 
Edwards, Mrs. Riselay and I went miles out in the country 
towards the lake to investigate a case that had been called 
to Anne’s attention. 

Mrs. Riselay is a charming woman, and is always ready 
at a moment’s notice to put her big fine horses and her car- 
riage at our disposal or to drive us herself. We found an aw- 
ful case of destitution. A poor young father with three 
little motherless boys on his hands to wash, dress and cook 
for in addition to working his miserable farm. We went 
down with the carriage loaded with good things to eat and 
also clothing and bedding but we simply couldn’t take the 
things into the house until we had spent the morning clean- 
ing it. Words fail me, Virgie, when I attempt to describe 
the filth, but what could the poor man do? I really do not 
think there had been a woman in the house since the wife 
died two years ago and she must have been helpless. Why, 
my dear, the papers on the pantry shelves were dated nine 
years back. 

“Well, we scrubbed and delved and washed floors and 
dishes and children and windows and gave the man a few 
lessons in practical housekeeping. Rachel bathed the littlest 
boy and dressed him in a suit of one of the young Kauff- 
manns that Dora had sent. He fell asleep in her arms as she 
gently crooned lullabies and sang “Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to 


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sea” and it was with reluctance that she put him in the 
broken down crib when it was time for us to go. I’m won- 
dering what will become of the little girl, aged eleven, when 
she gets back from the poor grandmother’s this summer for 
there’s only one miserable bed beside the crib. I shall make 
it my business to see that she is taken care of. 

“O, the poverty and suffering in this beautiful world! 
To think that we complain when the weather doesn’t suit 
us or a cake falls or a dress doesn’t turn out just exactly 
as we had planned. I could beat my head when I think 
of it. And there are such dire tragedies at our very doors 
that we know not of — ^verily “we have eyes and we see not.” 
And you’d be surprised at the diversity of opinion about this 
case and similar ones. One woman said that any man who 
couldn’t keep a house clean didn’t deserve help and we were 
fools to waste our energy on him or his brats. Of course, 
she knows lots about taking care of three small children, hav- 
ing none of her own and spending all of her time on a nasty 
little squinty poodle. She’s the kind who makes her hus- 
band come in at the side door and who goes around after 
her guests if any dare go there, vsrith a carpet sweeper. She 
is of the same persuasion as a woman whom Mrs. Edwards 
was telling about who wouldn’t miss her weekly missionary 
(foreign, of course) meeting if the skies fell but who refused 
point blank to give any assistance to the poor Jennings girl 
for her poor fatherless baby, saying, “Well, she made her 
bed so let her lie on it.” If they have beds in the next 
world, Virginia, I hope I’ll have the pleasure of making up a 
few for some of the large army of narrow minded individuals 
of that stamp who clutter up the earth. I’ll stick them full 
of pins! 

I must tell you of the naughty escapade that your beauti- 
ful niece and nephew and several other infant prodigies took 
part in yesterday. It was a bright, windy day and towards 
noon Amy’s maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes, 
serenely oblivious to the fact that many pairs of eagle eyes 
were upon her; and before she had been in the house a half 
hour, these same desperadoes marched up to the line, un- 
pinned divers damp and moist articles of clothing and put 
them on and, verily, Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed 
like one of these. Phil in a tan linen of Amy’s, Constance 
Lane in a hobble effect made of one of the maid’s aprons, 
little Bill Donnelly in a night-gown and the others in petti 
skirts, lingerie effects and pillow cases, marched around 


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through the backyards, ending up in Kauffmann’s corn field 
where all took part in a ghost dance — ^in the noon-day sun- 
light. How it happened that they weren’t noticed before the 
mischief was done nobody knows but the coup was success- 
fully carried through and most of the clothes discovered to- 
wards sunset lying in a torn and muddy heap under our 
garbage barrel while Amy’s yellow dress was brought forth 
this morning from the seclusion of our box couch where it 
had spent the night. 

This whole morning had been given up to futile attempts 
to appease Amy’s wrath by much washing, ironing and mend- 
ing of the Vale wardrobe and offers to replace the hopelessly 
ruined garments by the respective mothers of the little cul- 
prits. I don’t blame Amy much, however, and think it was 
a most maddening performance and not a hit funny. This 
last is a large fib for I am shaking with mirth as I tell the 
tale. I could write on forever to you but “enough is as good 
as a feast,” you know, and while this is not a feast. I’m sure 
you will agree with me that it is quite enough — for today. 

May 15. 

I’m cured — absolutely and irrevocably cured, Virginia, 
and I’ll never use one word of slang again as long as I live, 
for I said the most awful thing last night and feel positively 
disgraced. It was the night of the confirmation at our church 
and the services were followed by a big reception at Mrs. 
Edwards’. Bishop Lawton kept flitting from one flower of 
humanity to another discoursing on every conceivable topic 
while all the reception committee were vainly trying to pro- 
pel him to the dining room in the hope that he would take 
care of the inner man before leaving for his train, which was 
the last one back to town. I had been on my good behavior 
all evening and the strain of being dignified was beginning 
to get on my nerves. And as little bits of conversation were 
wafted to my ears, such as “Dear me, he must hurry and eat 
or he will miss his train” and “Cannot somebody make 
him go to the dining room,” etc., I gazed after his departing 
figure, as I thought^ and echoed the sentiments of the com- 
pany thusly: “Yes, old boy, if you don’t want to miss your 
train you’d better just grab a sandwich and beat it, Bish, 
beat it!” And, Virginia, as I live and breathe, he stood di- 
rectly behind me and heard every word. I thought Bob 
Thornton would have hysterics and I was all colors of the 
rainbow. All I hope is that I never see the Bishop again 


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for I shall go straight through the floor if I do; but I shall 
take especial pains to avoid him in the future. It was Mr. 
Larrahee’s broad back that I mistook for the ecclesiastical 
shoulders, Mr. L. having spent most of the evening in the 
vicinity of the refreshments. ’Tis said that “one thorn of 
experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning” and this 
is a large and copious cactus patch in the prime of its life. 

Our little play came off last Friday night and was mighty 
good, if one of the performers may be allowed to pass judg- 
ment upon it. Garry was the handsomest thing I ever hope 
to see and Patty was entrancing in her loveliness. I wish 
we might always assist nature by adding a few touches of 
color to cheek and lip — what a difference it “do” make. 

Little flakes of powder, little dabs of paint 
Make the homely female look like what she aint! 

Bart Williams, who came out from town to make us up, 
said that my eyes didn’t require any touching up but I in- 
sisted upon being decorated with the gooey black stuff sim- 
ply because all the others were having it on and I was sure 
I’d be ravishing; but I paid for my vanity the next day when 
I lost seventeen perfectly good eyelashes getting the vile con- 
coction off. 

Chester and Ward brought down the house with their 
skit and, really, Chester’s get-up defies description. He also 
sang some exquisite songs. 

It was a beautiful silvery night and Bruce insisted upon 
taking Rachel home; I do hope he hasn’t proposed or done 
anything rash — moons do so go to one’s head. There was a 
delightful dance after the performance and I couldn’t decide 
whether I ought to dance the first with my husband or my 
erstwhile butler fiance and positively they almost came to 
blows over it; the unwonted popularity nearly finished me, 
I can assure you. Garry says I make such a perfect maid 
that of course I’ll never need one, but opinions are divided 
on that subject in the Van Clief family. 

Norah, Mrs. Barney and I are cleaning house, wildly 
and frantically, brooms, mops and cleaning appliances gen- 
erally being worked overtime. Anne and Kate think that 
I and all those of like persuasion are almost, if not quite 
insane, as house-cleaning in the good old-fashioned sense of 
the w^ord is against their principles. 

“Of course, it’s all right if one wants to,” says Kate, 
affably, when we remonstrate with her, “but we Buttercups 


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confine our efforts to a weekly dusting and lapping up of 
floors and say ‘sufficiency’”; while Anne contends that she 
fails to see the point in stirring up strife and making work 
for oneself. 

Personally, I like the general upheaval, spring and fall, 
and enjoy going thro-ugh attic, trunks and clothes-presses 
and weeding out the inevitable junk that accumulates with 
such incredible celerity. But Kate evades the argument by 
reminding us that she has no attic and no trunks and 
therefore no weeding to do, and when her house was papered 
a short time ago she established a precedent along the line 
of the elimination of unnecessary labor. Buttercup consists 
of but one big L-shaped room downstairs, which serves the 
purpose of living and dining-room, and a tiny kitchen. On 
this particular morning, Gilbertine and I had gone downtown 
to the postoffice for the early mail and reached the cottage 
a moment after the men arrived, with hand wagon and 
rolls of wall paper. I simply had to run in, of course, to see 
the “ravishing blue” that Kate had selected, and found the 
men gazing around at the scene of order in the room, from 
which nothing had been removed. 

“Perhaps she wants us to begin upstairs,” suggested one, 
and then, turning to Gilbertine, he asked if this were not the 
right morning. 

“Why I think so,” answered Gilbertine, ’’Tm almost sure 
I heard mother say something about it — mother!” she called, 
raising her voice, “the men are here to do the papering — 
you’d better come down and tell them where to start.” 

“All rightee,” answered mother, “I’ll be there in just a 
moment — I’m cutting out a shirtwaist and I don’t seem to be 
fully clothed as yet, but they can begin anywhere, for that 
matter,” she concluded. 

“But, mother dear,” remonstrated her tall child, “there is 
nothing ready, no pictures down or anything,” and she gazed 
helplessly at the men who returned her look with no little 
annoyance on their countenances. 

Kate, sewing in hand, came running down, very charming 
in a kimona of deep blue silk with an exquisitely careless de- 
sign of old gold and pale blue butterflies scattered about 
on it. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said to the workers, “and 
you can start right in; just take the pictures down and move 
the things out of the way as you go along and then replace 
them immediately for I do hate that upset look and then it 


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will save oceans of time — O, and please be sure to dust the 
pictures before rehanging them. My daughter will give you 
a duster — thank you so much for coming today, I think 
you’re so nice. Isn’t that blue adorable, girls she went on, 
turning to us, “really, it’s heavenly,” and with a smile and 
nod she went back to her sewing. 

“Well, of all the ‘noive’!” said one man, sotto voice, to 
the other, “But ain’t she the nifty one, though?’ 

“Nifty, and then some,” laconically answered man num- 
ber two, “but Bill Parks told me this place was a regular 
three-ring circus — said Dieffenbach never had no trouble get- 
ting fellows to work here a second time, and I guess we can 
swing it.” 

“I guess they’ll have to,” whispered the nifty one’s daugh- 
ter in my ear, “I might have known mother wouldn’t move 
anything, it would savor too strongly of cleaning house in 
the true sense.” 

“And I had been thinking' that she’d be forced into doing 
so,” I said, “when I heard rumors of a change of wall cover- 
ing, but ‘not so’ it seems.” 

“You’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to get 
ahead of mother,” Gilbertine said, with an unconscious note 
of pride in her tone. 

“Only to discover probably that she had not gone to bed 
at all,” I finished. “I acknowledge myself ignominiously 
defeated in the battle of wits before I even enter the arena.” 

The man whom Garry engaged to plow our lot and plant 
the garden strolled in Sunday morning to make final arrange- 
ments and as Garry had simply asked Dick Tennant to send 
a good man here, he thought it might be well to preface his 
remarks by asking the man’s name. Man was positively the 
largest human creature I ever saw — about six feet six and 
weighing about three hundred pounds, but he answered to 
the query as to what title he bore by saying in the weakest, 
thinnest voice imaginable — “Pearl Rose, Sir.” I made a bee 
line for the cellar and laughed until I ached. He said that 
he didn’t live right in the town but had a little place in the 
“skirts outside the city.” He looks quite capable of drawing 
the plough himself so I won’t have to worry about whether 
or not he’s overdoing. 

Kate says she knows she has some blushing maiden to 
thank for the remarkable change in Nelson’s deportment 
(he is just 15) as regards ablutions and washing of hair and 
face. 


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“Up to the present time,” she said at the club yesterday, 
“my son and heir has been inveigled into washing his neck 
only by frequent offers of large bribes or forced to do so 
at the point of the bayonet but now he uses up large quanti- 
ties of soap daily and spends much valuable time scrutinizing 
himself in the mirror; the only solution, of course, is a youth- 
ful affiinity, and while I hate to have him begin so early to 
take an interest in girls, I am grateful for anything that will 
relieve me of that continual nagging.” 

“Yes, ‘any port in a storm,’ ” said Anne, “but don’t pat 
yourself on the back yet, Katydid, just wait until the football 
season begins.” 

Stormfield is gas mad just now — everybody drilling wells 
in their backyards and many making lucky strikes. Instead 
of “How do you do?” or “Good- morning” the invariable 
Stormfield greeting of the moment is “Have you struck yet?” 
or “How many feet down are you?” and the like. Tony 
Tennant and his followers (he is always the ringleader) 
have erected a very imposing looking structure in the field 
at the rear of our house and are “drilling” from dawn till 
dusk. Philip is Remington’s faithful shadow and, attired 
in overalls, stands at his post and does Tony’s bidding, happy 
in being near his idol. 

Gilbertine ran in yesterday and dragged me from my 
sewing to see the sight. “Nancy,” she said, “do come out in 
the daisy meadow for a little minute and gaze upon your 
angel child — he certainly leads a charmed life or he would 
have passed on long since.” 

At the topmost pinnacle of the shaft, Virginia, was sta- 
tioned Philip, my king, and my remonstrances were in vain. 

“I’ve got to be here. Mother,” he said, “for I’m first head 
driller and I have to tell the other fellows what to do.” 

“First head driller,” Virginia, do you realize the import- 
ance of even my station in life? — think of being the parent 
of such an one. 

“We’ve struck it this time, I guess,” said Remington, 
mopping his brow, “you can smell the fumes or something.” 

“Well, they must be almost to China by now, so maybe it’s 
something cooking down there,” suggested Nancy, who was 
looking on in rapt amazement. 

“Maybe so,” acquiesced Gilbertine, “but come. Nan — this 
sun is unbearable — let’s get under cover and pray that they 
will live through it all.” 


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Anne and Kate felt weird and romantic the other night 
and decided that they were very tired of their homes and 
families and would greatly enjoy sleeping on the banks of 
Rushton Pond. So they set forth with hair flying and 
blankets over arms but after vainly trying to coax sleep in 
their direction for some hours they gave it up as a bad job 
and deserted the alluring moonlit spot, with its millions of 
huge mosquitos, for the more prosaic but comfortable in- 
ducements of their own beds. The Tennant and Watson 
children are quite prepared for anything that their respective 
mothers may elect to do, and never turn a hair no matter 
what these same parents may decide might be interesting 
or instructive. 

This will possibly be the last letter before you come; I 
can hardly wait to see you and to hug the baby lamb. Rachel 
has planned to go to New York for a week just before you 
arrive but, of course, will be back again before you’ve been 
here more than a few days. She’s going down to consult 
a specialist about a most annoying pain in her head and a 
queer feeling in her heart that is most distressing. I could 
tell her that the whole trouble is that her heart isn’t within 
a thousand miles of where it ought to be, but I don’t dare. 
Garry will go in to town early to meet you and I will be 
at our grand reunion station when the train pulls in. Until 
then and always, God be with yon. 

May 25. 

I can scarcely realize that you have been here and gone 
again; it seems like a dream and such a disappointing dream 
but, of course, there was no question about it; if Billy is ill, 
your place is with him and your visit with us is of no con- 
sequence in comparison. But only four little days here and 
all the lovely things that had been planned for you gone up 
in smoke ! Well, it will all be the same in a hundred years, 
as Loring always says and we will have to grin and bear it; 
and anyway I have had my adorable Betsey Jane in my arms 
and have kissed her beautiful rosebud mouth and feasted 
my eyes on that glorious burnished copper head. I wonder 
if you realize what an unusually beautiful child you have — 
the marvelous coloring and perfectly moulded features — ^why, 
even her fingers are little tapering models of perfection. 

Then, too, you’ve seen my darling kiddies again, had a 
peep at my little nest, and met Anne and a few of the others 
and had a look about the village, so my letters will mean a 


[ 128 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


little more to you than they did before your flying visit. 
Didn’t you love the town with its big shady avenues and 
pretty houses? I knew you’d feel the spell of the place 
before you had been here a day. Of course, my disappoint- 
ment at your not meeting Rachel cannot be estimated but 
why cry over spilt milk? I am particularly glad that you 
had the day at Fenway Farm with Roberta and her dear 
children — ^isn’t Gwendolyn a love? And did you ever 
imagine anything half so exquisite as that view from the 
breakfast room windows? That big apple orchard sloping 
down to the bank of the little creek, the trees heavy with 
fragrant blossoms in those indescribable shades of pink. 

We are to dine with the Louis Dickinsons tonight and 
are overjoyed at the prospect for they are both delightful. 
Mrs. D. was one of the girls, to whom Uncle Jim paid court 
in his salad days and is a large stunning blonde while the 
honorable Louis is the kind of man who ought to be president 
of the United States to be in his proper sphere. Dear me, 
what are we going to do with Uncle Jim — do you suppose 
that he will ever marry? I’m afraid he’s hopeless, though 
I hear interesting rumors once in a while when I dash to 
town, concerning a fascinating widow and I’m clinging to the 
tiniest spar before quite giving up. 

“Don’t anybody justurb me, please,” Nancy just called 
from the nursery, “Fm writing a pome.” 

“What is a poem?” I asked, wondering what my bright 
child would do next. 

“Why, a pome,” she answered, gravely, “is something 
you write when you feel happy inside because the flowers are 
so pretty — sometimes you write it and sometimes you play 
it on the piano.” 

Do you know I get panicky when I think about the 
future and wonder what it holds for that child. I pray 
every day of my life that I may live until she is grown up, 
at least, for I want to shield her from everything that is hard 
or bitter in this unfathomable existence of ours — and she 
takes life so very solemnly and things are always going to 
mean everything to her — or nothing. I can see that plainly 
now. I never give an anxious thought to my big, beautiful 
boy, with his calm, phlegmatic disposition — troubles will roll 
off him like drops of water off a nasturtium leaf and he won’t 
recognize worries if he meets them on the street (a la Garry) 
but Nancy is so different. 


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O, what a tender feeling a mother has for a daughter! Our 
sons fill us with pride and we love them every bit as much 
but there’s a little unseen bond of sympathy between a 
mother and her girl child that means indescribable things. 
Whatever will I do, when she is growm up, if any man dares 
to want to marry her, I wonder? I shall probably say “Bless 
you, my children” and sew madly on her trousseau, for that 
is the way of the world. And really, I hope that both our 
children will marry early — I thoroughly approve of it and 
certainly I speak from experience for I was just out of kin- 
dergarten when I put Garry out of his misery by marrying 
him, and he wasn’t exactly ancient, either. 

I am due at Mrs. Edwards’ for luncheon in an hour and I 
don’t seem to be making any undue effort to get ready but I 
always hate to stop when I am writing to you for I can reel 
off anything and you seem to enjoy it. Mrs. Edwards is one 
of the cleverest women in Stormfield and it’s a treat to be in 
her company for an hour or two. Her husband is a school 
principal and without a doubt the handsomest school prin- 
ciple in the state. 

Nancy and Phil just came in with armfuls of violets and 
the room is filled with their fragrance. But this is May 
and May and violets are one. 


June 8. 

Rachel returned last night and came hurrying up here 
this morning perfectly wild to see you and is actually sick 
with disappointment at the pranks Fate has played with our 
plans and is calling down large volumes of wrath on the 
fickle dame’s head. She says you will simply have to come 
right back as soon as Bill is well enough and I vehemently 
echo her sentiments. 

Mrs. Larrabee and her patient spouse called last evening 
and Garry and I put in a most wretched hour for Mrs. L. was 
unusually talkative and yet said not one word worth repeat- 
ing, as usual. Poor soul — how awful it must be to lack every 
human and interesting trait. I wish you might have gone 
in her house — it has that queer funeral odor and atmosphere 
of suppression that always makes one want to ask “Does 
she look natural?” Bruce says Mrs. Larrabee looks for all 
the world as if she came out of the ark while Garry says 
she’s the missing link, without a doubt. 

Our day at Ithaca was delightful — the only drawback 
being that Cornell won, for of course the minute I got there 


[ 130 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


and set eyes on Loring I prayed that Michigan might win. 
Sliv and his nice brother Terry met us at the train and took 
us to the Dutch Kitchen for lunch and then we were whirled 
to the game in the Chaddock 40 H. P. machine. Patty and 
I shrieked ourselves hoarse and could scarcely speak at all 
on the return trip, another good use for a ball game agreed 
the boys, as we stared at them silently (did you get that?) 
all the way home. Going down, an old man, about eighty, 
but quite springlike and jaunty, who sat across the aisle 
from us, insisted upon telling the story of his life to slow 
music, the accompaniment supplied by the rumbling of the 
train. Patty and I became hysterical and the boys were most 
embarrassed, while old baldtop ranted on, supremely indif- 
ferent to our mirth and lack of attention. He was crazy 
about Patty’s blonde hair and asked me in a stage whisper 
if it was all hers. I told him that I wasn’t sure but that 
her grandmother was one of the seven Sutherland sisters 
and that she probably inherited it. Suppressed mirth from 
escorts. When we were in the dining car coming home and 
had just settled down to a delicious meal — who should totter 
in but Mr. Methuselah. He came right up to our table and 
conversed affably all the way back to Buffalo. Miss Tennant 
has certainly made a hit. 

We have decided to go north to visit Dad and Mother 
about the twentieth and expect to have the time of our lives. 
Loring is there for the summer, of course, and Uncle Jim 
will be there also while we are and Karl is going up too, in 
fact, is going to try to leave Toronto the same night we do. 
Karl has always been my favorite cousin, you know, and I’m 
so glad we are to be there together. I hate to leave Rachel 
but can hardly wait to see Dad and Mother and Cobalt and 
Haileybury and the mines and all the interesting things 
they’ve been writing about — not to mention the new house. 
I have never seen a mining town but from Dad’s description 
of Cobalt I haven’t missed much as far as architectural and 
civic beauty is concerned. The babies are wild with excite- 
ment as might be expected and can hardly sleep nights — I 
haven’t noticed any particular falling off in appetites, how- 
ever. 

Rachel has promised to write often and Anne and all the 
others are going to plan to be with her most of the time. 
How that woman has endeared herself to us all ! Bruce will 
be away on his vacation while we are gone and I am so 
relieved — I was so afraid he would make a botch of things 


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in my absence. I am more than glad that brother Bill has 
completely recovered his equilibrium and is in his usual good 
spirits. Karl thinks somewhat of taking Charley Geers up 
with him and I shall certainly pass away if he does. Charley 
gets on my nerves most awfully for he’s a perfect old maid 
and too fussy for w^ords. He makes me think of old Aunt 
Molly Martin — ^you know she walked in the straight and 
narrow path of systematized routine and had it down fine. 
I’ll never forget Uncle Jim saying one night, when we were 
discussing her — “I honestly think that Aunt Molly would 
wash on Monday if it came on Sunday” — and she would, too. 
Charley is a strict vegetarian, too, you know, and never 
touches meat under any circumstances, but it’s my private 
opinion that getting on the outside of a large porterhouse 
steak would do Charles Augustus a great deal of good. 

I wish you could see Anne’s garden — a riotous "growth of 
fragrant pinks and glowing poppies, stately hollyhocks and 
dainty sweet peas — and the bluest of blue cornflowers — all 
nodding and smiling in the sun. 

I am working the sewing machine overtime but we must 
have clothes, even if we are going to the end of the earth. 
Nancy disapproves most heartily of the two little dresses that 
I’ve made her and say she won’t wear them as they won’t 
look pretty on her — she certainly will wear them, however, 
and was promptly sent to her room for laying down the 
law to her elders. She must overcome the self-consciousness 
that is growing upon her and Phil is imbibing some of it too. 
She thinks altogether too much about how she looks on cer- 
tain occasions and the tendency must be nipped in the bud. 
I certainly do not want them to be forward children and at 
the same time I’d hate to have them bashful — we must strike 
the happy medium, somehow. Of all things, deliver me from 
the bashful child that clings to its mother and hides its head 
whenever a stranger appears. Mother Van is always telling 
me how extremely bashful Garry was as a child. Now, I 
adore my charming mother-in-law and I’d hate to accuse her 
of not always adhering to the solemn truth, but what mar- 
velous transformations time, in its flight, can bring about. 

The thirtieth, being a holiday, Bruce spent the day here 
and we all wisely decided to take it easy by lazily remaining 
at home on our spacious veranda instead of going somewhere 
for a “good time” and having an awful one as people always 
do on holidays. After luncheon we were all very much 
occupied in doing nothing when Kate Watson hove into sight. 


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very fetching in pale blue linen and nodding plumes, the one 
incongruous note in her otherwise harmonious appearance 
being a large market basket which was swinging over one 
arm. 

“Where are you going, my pretty mmd?” called Bruce, 
when Kate was within hailing distance. 

“I’m going a-visiting, sir, she said,” answered Kate, “and 
I’ll have to hurry to make my train.” 

“But why for the basket, pretty maid?” persisted Bruce, 
hanging over the railing in his eagerness. 

“In lieu of a suitcase, sir, she said,” called Kate, her voice 
growing fainter in the distance. 

I dashed down the steps and sped along with her, eagerly 
proffering everything in the line of suitcases, trunks and 
handbags that the house afforded. 

“Thanks, awfully. Nan,” she said, as we went along at the 
rate of forty miles an hour, “but I haven’t time and this 
will do nicely as I’m only going to the Crandall’s for a few 
days and when Marion and Fred see my traveling outfit they 
will undoubtedly present me with a good looking bag, but 
really, I was forced to resort to this,” she went on, “for 
Gilbertine has taken the best suitcase to Rochester, Sylvia’s 
gone to Buffalo for a couple of days with the other and Nelson 
has the only bag at Brighton — with his baseball togs reposing 
in it, so there was nothing else to do for Marion just tele- 
phoned an hour ago and I hadn’t time to borrow a decent 
apparatus from any of my long-suffering neighbors. But this 
basket holds a nightie and kimono and a little evening gown 
and slippers nicely and more than serves the purpose.” 

By this time we had reached the station and the train 
was pulling in. Kate boarded it daintily and waved a most 
unconcerned goodbye, while the huge basket swayed clumsily 
on her arm. I’ve never noticed many faults in Kate though 
she probably has her share but it’s safe to say that false 
pride is not one of them. 

Garry told me that I looked almost human last evening 
(and that, from him, is the highest pinnacle of praise) and 
asked where I got the stunning black crepe de chine gown 
that I had on. I told him that I had ordered it from New 
York, “seein’ as how“ he didn’t approve of my red one, and 
that the large bill for it would trot along almost any day. 


[ 133 ] 


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June 16. 

“Will wonders never stop ceasing?” Uncle Jim is en- 
gaged! Yes, on my honor, he is — he just called up from town 
and broke the news gently and asked me to pass it along im- 
mediately. The lucky girl is one of his old schoolmates and 
is a widow of undoubted charm. I am so glad that he has 
at last seen the error of his ways and is going to follow the 
example of every sensible man in the world, for of all the 
uninteresting things, an old bachelor is the most uninterest- 
ing without a doubt — though I may add that I have met a 
few attractive exceptions that prove the universal rule. 

The moon was glorious last night and by the silver light 
of her countenance the colony wended its way up to the 
‘Opery’ House where a little summer-night dance was on. 
The music was not of the best and much as we all love danc- 
ing, we spent most of the evening on the broad upper veranda 
with its vine-covered pillars, which is directly outside the 
ballroom. Young Dick Tennant is a beautiful dancer and is 
certainly getting on. It’s astonishing how the boys and girls 
seem mere children one day and young men and women the 
next; Dick has lovely manners, naturally, and will be a second 
Richard, Sr., I am sure. He joined our little corner group 
after a most strenuous waltz with some dowager whom he 
felt in duty bound to ask for a dance, she being the aunt of 
his lady fair, one Natalie something or other, who gives one 
an impresson of big eyes, large hair-bows and too short 
skirts. 

“That was what might be called making a toil of pleas- 
ure,” he remarked, mopping his brow and seating himself on 
the railing beside me. 

“You ’done noble’, Dickie boy” said Patty, “but it wasn’t 
a circumstance to my last one — did you all see me cavorting 
with the ‘Press’?” 

“We did indeed,” said Kate, “and I would like to state 
that you needn’t feel that way about it at all, for I consider 
friend Layton of the “Stormfield Banner” just about the best 
dancer I ever danced with — Garry Van Clief, excepted, of 
course.” 

“O, very well. Auntie Kate,” said Patty, with la futile at- 
tempt at haughtiness, “every man to his taste,” and she 
entered into an animated conversation with Bruce on the sub- 
ject of girls in general and a certain one in particular. The 
supper was unspeakable so Anne suggested merely toying 


[ 134 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


daintily with it and all going back to her house for real food. 

“We might break these Haviland cups, children,” she 
suggested, “and we’d never be able to replace them if we did.” 

“Cups?” echoed her tall son, scornfully, “They are young 
cisterns and nothing less — I second mother’s motion; for- 
ward march!” 

When we reached the house we found Rachel lying iin a 
hammock under the Japanese poplar, with the faithful Cop- 
per on guard. 

“I feel nervous tonight, Anne,” she said, in her rich, 
liquid voice, “and I’ve been walking for hours and finally 
turned in here — ^went through the house and found only 
Remington and Prince so decided to take a turn in the ham- 
mock and fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.” 

She was a picture as she lay there in the moonlight, her 
dusky hair all tumbled and her eyes like limpid pools. 

“O, do apologize, Rachel,” said Anne, ironically, “you 
know you must always stand on ceremony with me.” 

“You old tease,” said Rachel, playfully, but I could see 
that ishe had been weeping and her bravado was feigned. 

‘^Man alive — she’s a queen,” said Bob Thornton, staring 
at her, “I’m going in and put blinders on.” 

Patty, who is busy all day helping Anne at the thousand 
and one tasks that make up the day’s work, was starting for 
the kitchen to put on the coffee pot when she was forcibly 
restrained and told to remain with the common herd on 
the lawn and veranda while a select few of the lads waited 
upon her. 

“This is too, too much,” she said, as coffee, sandwiches, 
crackers and cheese were handed to her in rapid succession. 
“I feel like the woman who said she always had a “routine” 
of servants. 

Suddenly and without a moment’s warning Rachel stood 
up and announced her intention of leaving. 

“Thanks for the food, dear,” she said to Anne, “but I 
loathe moonlight and tonight everything seems fairly steep- 
ed in it — ^goodnight.” And before anyone could speak a 
word she was gone. Bruce dashed after her but some of the 
boys restrained him, assuring him that she evidently wished 
to be alone and that with Copper she was perfectly safe and 
anyway it was as light as day. 

“Just as you say, fellows,” he agreed, and then, feigning 
weariness, added that he was all in himself. “So I guess I’ll 


[ 135 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


beat it,” he concluded “and I’d give the large sum of fifty 
cents if I could jump on a trolley car or into an automobile 
or some kind of conveyance.” 

“Why don’t you go to the kerb and hail the traditional 
passing cab?” I suggested. “There’s always one in stories.” 

“Well, there isn’t any kerb, for one thing, and this isn’t 
a story,” interposed Garry. 

“No, it’s real life, with a vengeance,” said Bruce, huskily 
and was soon lost to sight among the shadows. 

June 17. 

“Can you recount to me. Nan dear,” asked Garry at din- 
ner last evening, “some of the terrible crimes that our son 
and daughter have committed lately in the name of sport? 
I walked up with Mr. Jones tonight” — Jessamine’s fond 
parent, you know — “and he gave me the impression, in a 
roundabout way, ithat the VanClief children were rather 
boisterous, to put it mildly, or in plain American, little 
devils.” 

“Do you mean to tell me,” I said, almost bursting with 
rage, “that you are getting it too? Really, it’s intolerable — 
there’s been a perfect epidemic of tattling around here lately 
and it’s getting on my nerves. Our children are blamed for 
everything and I’m supposed to give up my entire time to 
protecting the cherished infants in the neighborhood from 
the terrific onslaughts of my own vicious offspring. As far 
as I can see, Nancy and Phil are the only real children in 
the vicinity; for, according to their respective mothers, all 
the others are angels with sprouting wings. I never can 
understand how some people always know what other peo- 
ple’s children are up to — I’m always too occupied in minding 
my own affairs to notice whether others are attending to 
theirs or not.” 

“Well, don’t burst a blood vessel, darling,” said husband, 
mildly, “I’m sorry I spoke; but, really, I don’t blame you, for 
it is annoying.” 

“ ‘Annoying’ is good,” I said, with a forced smile. “Mad- 
dening is the word. It’s a pity I wouldn’t give all my atten- 
tion to Jessamine Jones and her friends — I certainly don’t 
expect the honorable Mrs. J. to watch my two all day long 
and I tell you now, Garret VanClief, and I mean what I say, 
I will tolerate almost any fault in my children that cannot 
be overcome, but tale-bearing and putting blame on others 
I will not stand.” 


[ 136 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“Agreed,” said Garry. “You may count on my co-opera- 
tion,” and we dropped the subject.” 

Of course, I just wrote you several reams yesterday but 
I simply had to get the ^ove sentiments out of my system, 
consequently, another letter today. The suffrage club met 
at Anne’s yesterday and it’s going to be a great thing for 
this old town. By the way, did I tell you that Anne, Roberta 
and Letty went in town one day last week and spoke to the 
public on one of the busiest corners in the city at the busiest 
hour of the day? There are those who might call it un- 
womanly but they do not know whereof they speak, for, in 
reality, it was one of the bravest and most beautiful things 
ever done by women for women in the history of the city. 
I’m not an out and out suffragist or suffragette or whatever 
you call it, but I’m keenly interested in it all and am trying to 
find out all that there is in it. And really nothing makes me 
so peevish as to hear that it takes women from their homes 
and all that sort of talk. If going to the polls once a year 
will take women away from their homes more than the 
bridge clubs and federations and the million and one other 
affairs that the majority belong to, why I’d like to know it. 
And if a woman isn’t big enough, broad enough and clever 
enough to be able to give a little thought and interest to the 
unprotected women who, mayhap, do not live the sheltered 
life that she does, why her vote wouldn’t be worth much, 
anyway. I don’t want to vote, goodness knows, but I would 
like the privilege for those who do want and need it. 

Anne said that while they were speaking all the men in 
the crowd were most gentlemanly and deferential and that 
they made it easy and pleasant for her to do what she did 
for her sisters in the big, big world. 

Young Len Watson lunched with me yesterday and, 
really, I think he does possess a few lovable characteristics 
— he’s perfectly dear with the children and read to them 
for hours and he has also been a great help to his grand- 
mother, having painted floors until he’s blue in the face, or 
rather, green, for that’s the color selected, I believe. 

The Appletons are coming out in the fall and I think I 
will gave a little tea for Mrs. A. as a passport to the “colony.” 
She was tennis champion at Wellesley during her entire 
course there and I know everybody will like her. Some peo- 
ple named Lamb have come here lately and taken that 
fascinating Swiss chalet that you noticed particularly when 
we took that long jaunt the day after you came. Mrs. Lamb 


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A BIT O’ SILENCE 


strikes me as being anything but a kindred soul but has 
named her house “The Fold” so has a faint idea of the 
fitness of things at least. Her name is anything but con- 
sistent, however, for docility is not her long suit and if it’s 
true that the meek shall inherit the earth I’m very much 
afraid that Mrs. Lamb and all of her ilk will miss out con- 
siderably in the final division of the property. I called 
politely and she promptly returned the compliment but I’m 
sure she’ll never make a real “colony-ite.” She certainly 
has the sharpest tongue and most aggressive manner and 
decided views that I have yet come in contact with. 1 saw a 
little thing in one of the magaznes lately that fits her ex- 
actly — it ran something like this — “Some caustic people in- 
variably brag that they always hit the nail on the head, 
not knowing that it would be more courteous to miss it 
occasionally.” N’est pas? 

I’ve been scribbling for hours so must fly back to my 
post at the sewing machine, for just a few more days and 
then — all aboard for the wilds of northern Canada. 

Haileybury, Cobalt Region, Ontario, Canada. 

July 5. 

Greetings from the North Pole! I’ve already found a 
box of stale sandwiches that Dr. Cook left behind him and 
an old shoe that I know belongs to Bob Peary. We’ve been 
here all this time and I’ve not yet written a letter but, dear, 
it’s one continual rush and tear and I’ve certainly done my 
duty in the postal card line. Karl met us in Toronto, you 
know, and added greatly to the pleasure of the trip by his 
presence. Charley of the anti-meat society didn’t material- 
ize, however, for which relief much thanks. I will endeavor 
to give you a detailed account of the happenings up-to-date 
and crave your leniency if my little chronicle is not a scin- 
tillating narrative but a plain, unvarnished tale. 

We left Toronto about ten P. M. — a jumble of suit 
cases, babies, umbrellas, magazines and all traveling para- 
phernalia, and reached North Bay about dawn; there they 
attached the diner so we all arose and dressed and after a 
most delectable breakfast, settled back to enjoy the scenery. 
“O, look at the lake,” shrieked Phil as a tiny body of water 
came into view. “O, that’s nothing; I can see two on this 
side,” said Nancy loftily, going him one better as she always 
does. “Two?” echoed Karl, in amazemnet, before we had 


[ 138 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


gone much farther, “why, they’re as thick as mosquitoes 
on a sultry July night.” And sure enough, there was a 
lakelet every few rods along the way. O, it was lovely, Vir- 
ginia; hundreds of tiny toy lakes sparkling in the sunlight 
and bordered by countless little pine trees that were re- 
flected in the shimmery surface of the water. Hardly a sign 
of civilization for the entire one hundred and fifty miles 
but a few straggly little settlements, which were mostly lum- 
ber camps. 

Cobalt is a typical mining town they tell me and is not 
beautiful, to let it down gently; a large tin-looking hotel and 
funny huts and shacks and stores and more men congregat- 
ed in one spot than I ever saw in all my life before. Really, 
a man has a lot of assurance to marry a girl and take her 
to such a place and yet those same brides enjoy it, they 
say, and wouldn’t come back to common, everyday civiliza- 
tion for anything. Half an hour more and we were in 
Haileybury and everybody was laughing and crying on 
everybody’s else shoulders. Mother and Daddy looked so 
good to us and Loring was the handsomest thing, in soft 
blue shirt, baggy trousers and high tan leggings which all the 
lads wear “prospecting” — or so they say, but I notice they 
pose in the picturesque out-fit most of the time. 

The house is very attractive — low, broad and home-like, 
and while the town itself is hideously bare and homely, the 
location is superb; it’s on the side of a hill which slopes 
gently down to Lake Temiskaming, the latter being ninety- 
two miles long and unbelievably deep. And you needn’t 
waste any more of your perfectly good sympathy on our 
precious parents at all, for they are not in any need of it, 
believe me. It’s all very well to talk about the Canadian 
wilderness and the frozen north, et cetera, but when one 
casts one’s eyes upon the luxuries that they all Lave at 
their command, one’s erstwhile pity turns to envy and one 
expresses the thought — “Verily, this is a haven where I 
would be.” Electric lights, trolley cars, golf club, up-to-date 
piano stores and florist shops and fresh Huyler’s from Tor- 
onto every morning; these little items merely give one an 
inkling of the true state of affairs. 

Of course, it’s wild and woolly, too, and early the othei 
morning we saw a big moose come out of the thick brush 
woods and steal through the silver mist for a dip in the 
lake. And not long ago Loring and some of the miners met 


[ 139 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


a mamma bear with two cunning baby bears prancing along, 
as they were wending their rough and stony way to one 
of the mines. 

Little Sally Jones is all that I thought she was and more; 
Loring; with all his ravings, didn’t half do her justice. 
Gracia Denton is a wonderfully fine girl and Cynthia Dayre 
is just the style that you admire — a perfect Gibson type. It 
seems as if I had known these girls and so many of the 
other Haileyburians all my life from hearing so much of 
them from the family. Mother has charming neighbors, a 
young Mr. and Mrs. Hayes from Harrisburg, who have a 
motor boat, a victrola, three maids and a young son who 
keeps all hands busy on all occasions. We have had great 
sport in Dad’s new launch and on Monday some of us went 
to South Lorrain, twenty miles down the lake, in it and then 
hit the (trail and spent the night in the bush. We wanted 
the experience and it wasn’t bad at all for the shack down 
at the mines is as comfortable and up-to-date as lots of the 
so-called bungalows and summer cottages that dot the tran- 
quil shores of our own Lake Erie. The ride down was won- 
derful, all sorts of interesting things claiming our attention 
every minute. I tell you I felt very small and insignificant 
as we glided past Devil’s Rock, a sheer wall of stone rising 
majestically up from the deep green water several hundred 
feet. Its face is ornamented by quaint natural carvings — 
an Indian, poised with arrow, a wild beast or two and some 
ancient hieroglyphics. Further along was the “Old Mission” 
established years ago by French Jesuit priests. On the re- 
turn trip next day, we stopped at the tiny French Canadian 
town of Ville Marie, at one of its three hotels, if you please. 
Up on a hill, back of the village, is an old stone shrine called 
the “Grotto” and at certain times and seasons, the peasants 
toil up there and tell their beads in the shadow of the cross. 

The launch is a beauty and holds thirty easily and it’s 
fitted out with folding tables and chairs, compartments for 
food and water and everything else imaginable; the only in- 
congruity is its perfectly idiotic name — ^the “Maybelle.” 
Dad would like to call it the “Margarita” for mother, of 
course, but is foolishly superstitious about changing the 
name of a boat and this one was already christened when 
purchased. I tell Dad it’s that wild Irish streak in him crop- 
ping out as it does once in a while, but he only laughs and 
says that he hasn’t a single ancestor who ever saw the 
shores of Erin. Certainly mother has, though, or else they 


[ 140 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


got me at the Church Home. Isn’t Dad a wonder, though? 
The dearest, biggest-hearted, finest father that an undeserv- 
ing creature like me ever had, and that’s not telling the half. 

Nancy and Philip are veritable water babies and spend 
most of their time splashing in the lake, which is at our 
very door step. We grown-ups (?) also seem to manage to 
put in a good bit of time doing the aquatic act. I can swim 
like a fish when I adorn myself with water wings but I go 
down like a lump of lead without them. My son — my baby 
was five yesterday — really, I must be sending for some col- 
lege catalogues soon. 

Such interesting people as one meets here; lots of Cana- 
dians, of course, and also natives of every corner of the 
world. A most Cosmopolitan collection, indeed. The town 
is yet young and crude in a way, having only boomed since 
the silver fever struck the neighbrhood, though in reality 
a tiny Haileybury, a few houses and stores, has been here for 
some twenty years and was one of the trading posts con- 
nected with the Hudson Bay Stations. The manner in which 
the Canadian pronounce ^girl’ is just too pretty. And, in- 
stead of saying that a thing is very nice or quite satisfactory, 
they agree that it’s “not too bad.” Isn’t that unique? 

In the evenings, after a ride on the lake, we all sit on 
the big veranda and look across the water at the twinkling 
lights of Gigues (pronounced “Gig”) and other little hamlets, 
the whole vista being further enhanced by the rays of the 
moon, which is now at its full, a shining ball of silver in 
the northern sky. 

I have had nothing much from Stormfield but a few un- 
satisfactory postals — if I don’t hear from Rachel before long 
I will begin to fear something has happened. Our children 
call this metropolis “Hurley-Burley” — a most appropriate 
name, indeed. 

“Hurley-Burley”, July 13. 

The news in Billy’s letter made me just sick — ^how on 
earth could you sprain your ankle getting into the machine? 
I am so sorry and hope it will be all right in a jiffy. I shall 
wield my pen fast and furiously and write often and tell you 
every little thing to help pass the tedious time. A letter from 
Rachel came yesterday and I read of awful heartaches and 
loneliness between the lines. I fear she is weakening and 
I wish she would; such courage and strength of purpose I 
never saw and it tires me to think of it. The water is so 


[ 141 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


blue today and is dotted over with gay motor boats which dart 
up and down the lake like spry little ants or chipper little 
squirrels, while graceful canoes, guided by pretty girls and 
flannel-clad men, glide swiftly across the azure surface, 
the whole a panorama of true summer delights. Our fine 
times continue and how we all wish you were here to enjoy 
them with us. 

Yesterday was the Golf Club tea and instead of being 
the proper and rather formal affair planned, it evolved itself 
into a rollicking circus; we had a society baseball game and 
I ruined a perfectly good linen frock sliding to second, but 
I simply had to get there. 

The club house itself is only as big as a minute but is a 
perfect little craftsman gem in the most exquis-ite setting 
imaginable. It perches on the crest of a hill which is itself 
a promontory, and from its windows, veranda and sur- 
roundings, your view takes in the province of Quebec with 
its quaint townlets nestled in the valleys. We stayed for 
dancing in the evening and as dusk fell, the wondrous beauty 
of the Northern Lights on the water was a thing to be re- 
membered and treasured always — the various hues shaded 
from palest pink to deepest rose — most delicate green to 
rich dark emerald, primrose yellow to glowing flame color 
and soft amethyst darkening into royal purple, all blended 
together in a wonderful opalescent harmony of color that 
seemed to steal up over the misty blue hills and spread itself 
lavishly over the calm surface of the lake. I don’t wonder 
that Henry Drummond wrote some of his greatest poems up 
in this region; anyone with the least bit of poetry in his 
nature would be inspired to do great things; and to think 
that Drummond died up here — O, the pity of it ! 

Really there is something about this country that be- 
witches one. The south is adorable with its balmy air and 
indolence, the west is alluring and wonderful with its spirit 
of ambition and eagerness, the east is charming with its old- 
world elegance and refinement, but O, the North! The 
North casts a spell at once mysterious and fascinating and 
which cannot be denied. A man goes up there to look over 
the ground; he is attracted, he hesitates and he is lost, or his 
heart is lost, to the wilderness, the life-giving air, the color, 
the spirit and the magic of the North. 

What impresses me greatly is the gallantry and chivalry 
of the men up here, particularly the Canadians; such devo- 
tion and attentiveness to the women! Yesterday we didn’t 


[ 142 ] 



Two American Beauties in the Tennant Garden S 4 







A BIT O’ SILENCE 


have to lift our eyebrows but were waited on hand and foot 
by the lads, who looked stunning in white ducks, blue serge 
coats and tennis shoes; the women did not have to beg and 
urge them to do things, either, but when some one suggested 
supper they arose with one accord, dropped everything at 
hand and brought out table, chairs, dishes and food and 
passed the latter with much deftness. There are some fine 
golf players among the members — R. Herbert Jones, one of 
the barristers (we would say “lawyer” in “the States”), beat- 
ing Mrs. Jack Wesley yesterday by a score of 2 up and 1 to 
play. They are real men too, and not a bit effeminate. It’s 
nothing to make so much fuss about, I suppose, but our men 
are so slow generally and leave everything from the getting 
up of the parties to the hauling of the chairs to the girls. 
Pardon the slam, American boys, but you are lazy. Sally 
Jones and Gracia are delightfully refreshing — I must ask 
them both to visit me sometime. Karl seems to be more 
than necessarily interested in Miss Denton — good thing. I’ll 
help it along, for Karl is a darling and I’d hate to have him 
follow in Uncle Jim’s footsteps and deprive some girl of a 
perfectly good husband, until he’s almost (not quite) too 
old to be interested in the game of life from the viewpoint 
of one of the participants but merely content to look on from 
a stage box. 

Tomorrow we all go down to Brown’s Island in the “May- 
belle” (really. I’d almost think she’d feel too silly to float, 
with that name) and the men of Mrs. Dexter Vale’s house- 
party spent this entire morning overhauling the craft, while 
Mother and I sat on the dock and directed the proceedings. 
My dear, if you could have seen our handsome Loring scour- 
ing the windows with bon ami — Garry and Karl on their 
knees for hours cleaning the engine and Uncle Jim mending 
little rips in the leather cushions, you would have howled. 
All of them would groan loudly if we ventured to ask them 
to clean the veranda or water the lawn and they only cut 
the grass under protest, but they’d give their life’s blood for 
that old boat, I verily believe. 

“Why doesn’t Dad lend a mitt?” asked Loring, loftily, 
as he scrubbed away vigorously. “I like the way he lets us 
do all the dirty work while he puffs away on a twenty-five 
cent straight and reads the papers.” 

“Everybody works but father,” I trilled from my vantage 
point on the edge of the dock and we all began attacking 
the dear man but mother took us off our perch speedily. 


[ 143 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


‘T’m ashamed of you all,” she said sternly. “Do let your 
poor father rest once in a while, I’m sure he deserves it — he 
provided the boat for you to clean and also to have a good 
time with, and likewise everything else you have.” And she 
took up her book and began reading intently. 

“Squelched,” said Loring meekly, and we all felt about 
an inch and three-quarters in height and said no more on the 
subject of Dad’s delinquencies. 

I never saw the lake prettier and the boat bobbed up and 
down merrily as the lads worked away. “Now, if Anne and 
Rachel and some of the other dear Stormfield people were 
here this whole thing would be absolute perfection,” I said, 
drinking in the beauty and freshness of the sparkling morn- 
ing and thrilled with happiness and the joy of just living. 

“I would love to meet all your friends in Stormfield,” said 
mother heartily, “they must be more than attractive.” 

“Attractive!” chorused Garry, Loring, Uncle Jim and I, 
“They’re the salt of the earth — they’re in a class by them- 
selves — ^to be exact, they’re ‘it.’ ” 

“Rachel is so adorable,” I enthused, “and the little mys- 
tery about her lends an extra touch of fascination and Anne 
is wonderful — ” 

“And Patty,” broke in Garry — “don’t forget an extra 
special little eulogy on Patty.” 

“I should say not,” cried Loring, vehemently, “she’s got 
it — you bet.” 

“Got what?” echoed mother wth a trace of nervousness 
in her voice, not quite certain, I presume, whether he was 
referring to a particular virtue or a contagious disease. 

“That’s what I mean, she’s got it,” repeated brother, 
“why, you know, she’s a queen, a winner, she’s it — some 
class, the goods, got them all skinned — why I can’t explain 
any better than that,” he concluded. 

“He is speaking in the vernacular of the modern college 
man,” I tried to explain — “to say of a girl that ‘she’s got it’ 
is saying the last word as regard homage, glorification and 
praise.” 

“Well, I declare,” said our gentle mother, “the youth of 
today speak an entirely different language — ^I wonder that 
any of the older generation understand a word they say.” 

“There’s a possibility that the ‘youth’ would just as soon 
they didn’t,” I suggested and mother had to smile. 

Sally and Gracia are going down with us tomorrow — also 
young Mr. and Mrs. Hayes and their hopeful next door, and 


[ 144 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Cynthia, her brother Barclay and a perfect dream of a 
cousin — a West Point cadet, and last but not least, “Peer 
Gynt,” their dog (he’s a prize Boston bull and they wouldn’t 
stir a step without him — I expect they’ll try to smuggle him 
past St. Peter when the time comes.) O, I believe Mrs. Reg- 
gie French is also going; her three youngsters are down in 
Toronto visiting their grandmother and her husband is up 
at Porcupine, so mother invited her. She’s a perfect scream, 
says the drollest things and is extremely stylish. So with all 
from the Vale mansion there will be quite a crowd, as ’twere, 
but the more the merrier and the boat is enormous. I am 
so anxious to see Brown’s Island; it and the beautiful house 
on it were owned by a multi-millionaire of Philadelphia, who 
used to come up here every summer with a party of congenial 
spirits. I’m told. I asked last night at Sally’s bridge party 
why he sold the thing if it’s so awfully attractive and Dad 
says it was because Haileybury was building up so rapidly 
Mr. Millions didn’t want to be so near civilization — Dad says 
he hears that Mr. Brown is now looking around for a suitable 
spot in the vicinity of the North Pole where he may live in 
peace and quiet, with an occasional house-party to stir things 
up. 

Karl ventured the remark that he couldn’t conceive of any 
man’s being contented in such a quiet, out-of-the-way place 
as the island, whereupon Loring said dryly, “O, but recollect 
where be came from” and hardly were the words out of his 
mouth before he remembered that Clark Hamilton the Dayre 
cadet cousin, who was among those present, was also from 
the Quaker City. Brother’s discomfiture can better be imag- 
ined than described. I positively must give my pen a rest 
(not to mention your poor brain) and go down to the dock> 
over the edge of which my beautiful son and daughter are 
dangling this very minute. 


Brown’s Island, 
Thursday morning, July 14. 

You can’t be any more surprised to hear from me from 
this isolated spot than I am to be here, but just as we were 
about to start for home last night and had managed to get 
everything and everybody, including the “hund,” safely 
aboard, the Maybelle absolutely refused to stir and after the 
combined but futile efforts on the part of the men to budge 
the stubborn creature, they decided to give it up as a bad 


[ 145 ] 


A BIT 0’ SILENCE 


job. Then she would sort of go backwards for a while and 
stop short; Karl suggested heading her down the lake and 
maybe we would get home that way, a la the old horse in 
“David Harum,” who always backed into his destination — 
but we gave up all attempts after a while and spent the night 
Robinson Crusoe effect on the island. All the small craft 
had gone up the lake for the night and the big boats run 
only every other day and of course yesterday wasn’t the day 
— there will be some going up this afternoon, however, so 
we won’t be stranded indefinitely. Of course, we aren’t at 
the mercy of the elements exactly for the caretaker was most 
generous and placed the whole big house at our disposal and 
anyway it was about 80 in the shade all day and the evening 
was quite balmy. At the present writing Garry and Clark 
Hamilton are scouring the island for wild game and I hope 
they find some soon for Gracia and Mrs. French have just 
announced that luncheon is almost ready. All day yester- 
day and so far today we have had sardines and crackers and 
crackers and sardines but we announce “Sardines, a la King,” 
“Sardines Newburg,” “Scalloped sardines,” and “Sardines a 
la Haileybury,” and it seems to go. Dad certainly has the 
Maybelle well “canned” but why he couldn’t have branched 
out a little in the variety line I don’t know. I refused to 
work and told them all that you were an invalid and had to 
be amused and the men all donated every spare sheet of 
paper in their memorandum books — did you ever see such 
a heterogeneous collection? I keep Barclay busy sharpen- 
ing pencils for I seem to wear down a pencil point in an in- 
credibly short space of time. Cynthia is nurse maid and has 
her hands full keeping Nancy, Phil and the Hayes youngster 
from falling into the lake. Loring is assistant dish washer 
but seems quite delighted with the job for Sally is at the 
helm and Loring is not absolutely indifferent to her many 
charms, it seems! Ben Hayes, Uncle Jim and Karl keep 
tinkering with the engine but at last reports weren’t an inch 
further than they were last night. Dad has been fishing all 
morning and here am I, roosting on a huge flat rock writing 
to you. I think I have now accounted for everybody and we 
are all perfectly happy except for the fact that all our fami- 
lies in Haileybury may be worrying about us. Dad says he 
knows they aren’t, however, for when the last small boat 
went up last evening just as we were attempting to start, 
some of the Haileybury men, noticing our lads puffing and 


[ 146 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


steaming, called out, “What’s the matter? Can’t you get 
her started?” 

“O, my yes,” Dad answered, “We’re just doing this to 
amuse the little fishes.” They didn’t think it was serious, 
evidently, and went right on, but they will of course tell 
mother and the rest that we are all right. 

How Mr. Brown ever gave up this place I can’t imagine — 
it is alone on the island, save for the care-taker’s shack, and 
is most alluring-looking, back among the pine trees and blue 
berry bushes, the latter growing in a tangled mass all over 
the island. The house is built of stone and dark red shingles 
and has a number of picturesque gables. It consists of a 
huge living room with low, broad windows and an immense 
fireplace and on the lintel is carved “As I muse, the fire 
burns”; a spacious dining room, ornamented with deer heads 
and paneled in mahogany, a card room, a billiard room, 
kitchen, etc., and nine bedrooms which are partly furnished. 
The rugs are gone and the chairs but we didn’t mind for the 
beds had mattresses and we used coats and things for bed- 
clothes. I must attend to the last call for dinner in the din- 
ing room — ^it’s to be a standing luncheon, I believe. 

'Later. We feasted royally on sardines a la can, crackers 
and coffee and some delicious fresh bread that the care-taker 
man made this morning. I will proceed with this modern 
version of the Swiss family Robinson. We kept the Regina 
music box going madly last night, and had a perfect Charity 
Ball. The thing was squeaky and out of date and some of 
the things were awful but we wrung out “Blue Danube” and 
a few other good waltzes that were within our recollection. 

“That’s a cheerful dirge,” remarked Clark, as the Regina 
began on a doleful number that made one think of Eliza 
crossing the ice, but after dissecting the thing and putting it 
to vote we discovered that it was “Teasing, teasing, I am only 
teasing you” and as it then burst into a perfectly bully two- 
step we decided that it had been. The night was a miser- 
able failure as regards restfulness for sleep was out of the 
question. Young Hayes shrieked until early dawn for his 
own crib and the combined efforts and bribes of the entire 
party couldn’t quiet him. Peer Gynt, in his capacity of 
watch dog, did his duty with a vengeance and barked at the 
rustle of every leaf and Nancy and Phil couldn’t be induced 
to close an eye for hours, for fear they would miss something, 
while as for the lads — ! They kept up a running fire of 


[ 147 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


idiotic conversation all night and nearly drove us to distrac- 
tion. 

“That actress in room 16 wants two gin fizzes,” Coring 
called out, just as we were sinking into a much coveted doze. 

“Well, take them up to her yourself and tell her not to 
forget to tip the buttons,” answered Karl. Then — “I sup- 
pose they are going to give us some of that almost food for 
breakfast,” from Uncle Jim. “No, I think not — ^^it’s to be 
near-pancakes, I believe,” answered Barclay — and that’s the 
way it went all night. About four I got mad — rip-roaring 
mad and gave them a curtain lecture. 

“Don’t exert yourselves,” I admonished, from the folds of 
Garry’s raincoat, as I stood in the doorway, “those witticisms 
of yours are almost too brilliant — they might injure your 
brains if you have any and they’re old as the hills, besides.” 

“Well, you haven’t any kick coming. Nan,” said Coring, 
“I distinctly remember hearing you suggest some one’s get- 
ting a basket when Mrs. Reggie spilled all the cards last 
night, and that’s the worst ever.” 

“You never did,” I retorted, “I was speaking of something 
else and anyway that isn’t one tenth as pathetic as the time 
worn one you got off the other day when you asked Mrs. 
Hayes if she was breaking up housekeeping just because 
something dropped — that was the extension of the limit. 
You certainly are hopeless. Coring, there’s no doubt about it.” 

“Well, positively. Nan, it’s astonishing the way you criti- 
cised any and everybody and have such an exalted opinion 
of your own cleverness,” came Loring’s retort from over the 
transom (he was getting sleepy himself). “You’ll never set 
the world on fire, yourself.” 

“Maybe not,” I replied, “but a few know I’m here, though,” 
was my parting shot and I slammed the door and peace and 
quiet reigned supreme thereafter. 

There would be more of a variety in the menus only that 
everybody became famished on the way down and devoured 
ravenously. However, the bananas lasted until this morn- 
ing, also the cake and olives and there’s enough coffee for a 
regiment, not forgetting the ubiquitous sardines. 

I keep thinking of Rachel and wondering if she misses 
us and how she lives and keeps up her courage and where 
her Phil is and why he left her or she him and the darling 
baby child and all about it but I have “one of my premoni- 
tions” that the end is in sight. I know it. 


[ 148 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


Garry didn’t stalk any big game this morning so went 
at the blue berries and has picked enough to keep all Hailey- 
bury in pies for a week and his hands look for all the world 
as though septicemia has set in. 

The other girls wore dark linen frocks but I foolishly 
donned a white Peter Thompson and am a sight for gods 
and men. I wish you might see me and also have a look 
at Phil’s white canvas sneakers. Karl just announced that 
the engine will go well enough now to get us up to the town 
SO I will assist at gathering up the debris. 

And later still. We are on the boat chugging towards 
“Hurley-Burley” and there is such a commotion that I can’t 
write a word so I’ll seal this and mail it directly we reach 
the town. 

iStormfield, July 21. 

Quite a jump you’re thinking and indeed it is but here 
we are bag and baggage, and here we’ll stay for quite a 
spell, I trust. The whole thing from beginning to end was 
delightful but, as is always the case in every trip, the home- 
coming is the very best of all, or rather, the “reaching home,” 
for the “coming” — ^the “en route” portion — ^was anything but 
pleasant. The Grand Trunk strike was on and we had to 
go ninety miles out of our way to get to Toronto, while the 
sleeper was of the vintage of 1812. Then we had to come 
over from Toronto by boat, which in itself was no hardship 
but caused numerous complications in regard to baggage 
and we didn’t get our trunks until yesterday. 

The reason that you didn’t hear of our intended depar- 
ture is that when we reached the house after our slightly 
delayed trip up from Brown’s Island we were greeted by a 
telegram from Garry’s office requesting bis return as soon 
as possible as he was needed on an important case. Garry 
gazed at it and then turned away sadly. “There’s nothing 
to do but to pack up and go,” he lamented, “for I simply 
cannot afford to pass the thing up for it means a lot of 
shekels in my pocket, no matter how it turns out.” 

“O, well, I knew that something would occur before long 
to sort of even things up — ^we were having too good a time 
to last,” I said, “it’s the sort of thing that’s always happen- 
ing to me, you know — I believe I was the original Eve and 
was chased out of the Garden of Eden and have been told 
to ‘move on’ ever since. If I ever get to Heaven (which I 
won’t) I’ll probably just have my trunk unpacked and my 


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A BIT U’ SILENCE 


clothes hung up when Fll be informed that I’m wanted some- 
where else.” 

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Loring languidly, “unless you ar- 
rive at the shining portal just in time to see it go up in smoke 
— that would be more like it.” 

“You exaggerate I’m sure,” admonished mother, “and if 
things of that sort are always happening to you I would sug- 
gest that it is partly the influence of your mind and that you 
cause these things to be — ^to a certain extent — ^by allowing 
your thoughts to dwell upon them.” 

“You’re in wrong there, mother dear,” said Garry, not quite 
certain, I guess, whether she was in jest or earnest, “for I’ll 
back Nancy up by saying that fate certainly has it in for her 
most of the time, but she never lets it deter her in any way 
from going right ahead with the next thing on the pro- 
gramme of the day’s work but enters into each new thing 
with whole-hearted enthusiasm and fearlessness.” (Here 
Garry mopped his brow). 

“Listen to the model husband,” cried Karl, while I em- 
braced my champion and then dashed in to pack. 

I had telegraphed Nor ah that we were coming and when 
we arrived we found the house open and fresh and Anne, 
Patty and Rachel here to greet us. 

Rachel looks wan and pale and worries us all not a little — 
I am glad we are where we can get to her easily and quickly 
if she should want us. 

Our coming away was not without pangs of regret for 
we hated awfully to leave our “ownest” ones, while “the 
lure of the North” is still with us.. .It is amusing to hear the 
Stormfield people questioning us about the place and really 
it is surprising to discover how few know where Cobalt really 
is — they have an idea that it is in Alaska or Greenland and 
that the natives ride on dog-sledges and eat tallow dips. 

“Didn’t you almost freeze to death?” asked Esther Lane, 
and I lay back and fanned myself as I thought of the walk 
along the beach to the Golf Club — ^at ninety in the shade. 

I took Philip to the barber’s yesterday and had his adora- 
ble hair cut off ; I hated to do it but he is getting so big and 
husky that it looked silly. On the way home he insisted 
upon going into the drug store for a glass of water and when 
I objected on the plea that I didn’t like to ask for a glass of 
water without buying a soda, which I would not do, he said, 
“Why mother, just take me in by the hand and say ‘this 


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wicked child of mine is bound to have a drink’ and they won’t 
say nufiin, they’ll be so sorry for you.” He got the drink. 

The sunrise over the Concord Hills this morning sur- 
passed in gorgeousness anything that I have ever seen in my 
life. I happened to be up very early, as Nancy was restless, 
and looking out of the east window in the hall, was spell- 
bound by the beauty of it. How can people live in the 
crowded city when there is so much wonderful open country! 

Dora Kauffman gave a veranda party last evening and we 
had a jolly time, though Bruce elected to play the heavy 
tragedy role with a face about a mile long and that dampened 
our spirits somewhat. He is really in love with Gilbertine 
but hasn’t sense enough to know it and Gilbertine is wise and 
is biding her time, having the discernment to distinguish be- 
tween fascination for an ideal and real love for a real girl 
and knowing that all is coming out right in the end . 

Kate Watson came home with us for the night, observing 
that if some of the neighbors didn’t take her in she’d have to 
spend the night standing up as her house was full of guests, 
uninvited as far as she was concerned. The coolness with 
which those Watson children install their young friends as 
house guests without consulting their mother is astounding. 
Kate says she frequently discovers two or three of Cary 
Felice’s playmates sleeping the sleep of the unconcerned in 
her own good bed when she drags her weary self upstairs at 
night. But it really doesn’t bother her to any great extent, 
but nothing ever does for tha’t matter. Kate is the most per- 
fect example of the “triumph of mind over matter” that 
exists today, I’ll be bound. 

By the way, the Tennant girls are going away this fall — 
Patty to Wellesley and Shirley to a beautiful school in Con- 
necticut. Both won scholarships and Patty had another of- 
fered to her but refused it perforce; we are all so delighted, 
for they deserve it richly. Garry told Anne that he’d heard 
of linen showers and a dozen other kinds of showers, but a 
Scholarship shower was a new one on him. Anne is so proud 
of her lovely daughters and beamed upon us all yesterday 
as she dispensed tea and toast to the assemblage that had 
collected to hear the good news.. She has a stunning tea 
cart which has no rest from its labors. Kate has named it 
“Meeny” for no rhyme or reason and Meeny belongs to the 
colony, together with the cats, dogs, birds, horses, poll-par- 
rots and baby carriages that are life members. I should 
amend my statement concerning the refreshments and say 


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that she planned to dispense tea and toast but was obliged 
to produce lemonade, ginger ale and crackers to the ones who 
are always “simply dying of heat,” while the original menu 
was disposed of by “us cold ones.” We are divided into two 
distinct classes out here — the ones who are always cold and 
who demand warm drinks, food, houses and weather, and 
the others who go about shedding garments, opening win 
dows, fanning themselves and gulping down ice-water. Anne, 
Kate and I are charter members of the tribe of “tropical 
devotees,” while Esther, Rosamond, Elizabeth Watson and 
Roberta are in the other class and sigh for the frosty blast. 

Of course, there are some plain everyday human beings 
such at Letty, Sally and Frances who can adjust themselves 
to their environment but “far be it from sich” with the rest 
of us — ^we want what we want when we want it and we all 
try to get it and dissension reigns supreme. I told the girls 
yesterday that I was going to give my parties on the install- 
ment plan after this and try to make everybody happy. “I’ll 
invite the Royal Order of Esquimaux on a freezing January 
night,” I said, “then I’ll turn out the furnace, open all the 
windows and serve iced food and drinks, then get under sev- 
eral layers of eiderdown and wish you joy; and the nice 
sensible ones,” I continued, “I’ll bid make merry on a swel- 
tering night in July and will re-gale them with steaming 
coffee and scalloped things.” 

All agreed that the idea was capital save Kate. 

“Well, I don’t want to mis§ out on anything, ever, you 
know, Nancy,” she said, “so invite me to the cold party, too, 
and I’ll wear my fur lingerie, carry an oil stove and promise 
not to put both feet in the fire-place at once.” 


August 4. 

Among the numerous things on Garry’s list (a most es- 
sential part of a commuter’s assets) today, appears this item: 
“‘Order Motto for Kate,” which, interpreted, means that hus- 
band is to go to a printing shop and order a large piece of 
pasteboard with these words in deepest black — “LEST WE 
FORGET” — with humble apologies to Rudyard. The where- 
fore being that Kate seems to need a gentle reminder at all 
times and an occasional rather rigid one that “all things will 
not always come to him who waits,” without some slight as- 
sistance on the part of the patient one, particularly if the 
“things” happen to be dinner guests and the one who waits 
has neglected to invite them. For that is precisely what hap- 


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pened at Buttercup last evening and the consternation and 
chagrin depicted on Kate’s pretty face when the awful 
truth burst upon her were perfectly killing. She decided last 
week that she must have the Larrabees to dinner and 
broached the subject at a little telephone tea that I had on 
the spur of the moment — Ethel and Natalie having come out 
in their new car. 

‘T shall ask Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee as the guests of honor, 
the poor souls have been so very decent to me and to my 
family, and I want you and Garry, Anne and Dick, and Bob 
and Rosamond to consider yourselves invited also — to supply 
the necessary balance, as it were, to counteract or compen- 
sate or anything you please. I don’t really want any of you 
others but must ask somebody and you all are the kind that 
fit in anywhere and can adjust yourselves ito any condition, 
even a Larrabee evening.” 

“Well, it seems that Kate, Gilbertine and Sylvia brewed 
and baked all day and everything was in readiness when the 
six of us presented ourselves in best bib and tucker on the 
stroke of seven. Kate looked at us, then at the clock and 
sank to the floor with a dull and sickening thud. 

“Glory be,” she almost moaned, “I forgot to invite them — 
the Larrabees — ^the ‘jests’ of honor — and I didn’t want you 
fiends incarnate. I only asked you to help out — ^go home, 
every one of you — what will I forget next? My head, I 
guess.” And she sank lower still and refused to be com- 
forted. 

“Go home!” echoed Anne, “Well, I guess not — not when 
we know that chicken a la King, and one of the famous Wat- 
son salads are in readiness — come. Katydid, arise and shine 
in the capacity of gracious hostess and bM your little friends 
welcome and urge them to devour.” 

We were almost in fits by this time and Kate, with her 
usual buoyancy of spirit, joined in and the party was a howl- 
ing success. When rwe were taking our reluctant departure 
sometime after midnight, I heard Garry promise Kate that 
he would bring her a little motto tonight that would look 
well over the kitchen sink and might avert many a tragedy in 
the future. 

After some exciting singles on the Hastings tennis-court 
yesterday, Anne’s six-footer and I sank down exhausted on 
the soft grass of the apple orchard and regaled ourselves 
with iced tea (which I loathe) and lemonade (which I de- 


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A BIT O’ SILENCE 


test but had to drink as Roxane refused to concoct any hot 
beverages on such a sweltering day even at the risk of losing 
my esteem). 

“Dickie-child,” I said when I regained my lost breath, 
“tell me something funny or something.” 

“Honestly, Nancy, you make me tired, grumbled Dick. 
“I’m not funny and never will be but you always expect me 
to amuse you.” 

“You ought to be willing to make some slight return for 
the privilege of basking in my presence,” I retorted, “and 
you can be most entertaining if you’ll only exert yourself a 
bit — and you aren’t obliged to tell me that I make you tired 
even if I do,” I added in an injured tone. 

“A thousand pardons, Mrs. Van,” said Dick, effusively, 
“I will endeavor to entertain you with some of my scintillat- 
ing wit to atone for my rudeness; but do you know you make 
me think of Shirley when she was a “weent,” as Sylvia says. 
She used to hurl herself into father’s lap and say ‘Tell me 
a story read me things draw me things’ all in one breath 
so that if parent were not in the mood to do one he might 
take his choice of the other two.” 

“Here comes the tactful sister now so I’ll let you off this 
time,” I said, as a maiden in palest green appeared at the en- 
trance to the orchard and O ! Virginia, what a sight she was 
— beautiful always is Shirley Tennant, but in the sea-foam 
gown, flecks of golden sunlight glinting through the dancing 
leaves on her hair and framed in a setting of graceful, bend- 
ing trees, she defied all description. Leigh Hunt must have 
been inspired by a (similar vision when he said, “A girl is the 
sweetest thing God ever made.” 

Your letter was more than welcome and so very inter- 
esting but I would urge you to waste no time telling me of 
the varieties of mischief into which a baby igirl of one year 
and four months can get herself. I know all about it, love, 
having been through the mill and it is really the very hardest 
time of all babyhood for the mother — very different indeed 
from the ‘long-dress’ period when they ‘stay put.’ But a baby 
just beginning to walk is so very adorable that we try not to 
notice the spilled ink, the overturned baskets and the table 
covers hastily removed and forcibly downing a wild desire 
to beat our offspring to a pulp we hug the precious culprit 
to our bosom with a wave of joy that we have such a wonder- 
ful gift in our possession. You say that I never mention the 
Grangers which makes me think that they are away for the 


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A BIT O’ SILENCE 


summer, visiting Connie’s mother and an occasional postal to 
various members of the colony tells us that they are both well 
save for MarshaU’s rheumatism which sticks closer than a 
brother. I tremble for his raven locks which are probably 
growing prodigiously while he is laid up — he’ll be a perfect 
Paderewski when he returns, I’m afraid. 

Mr. Dielf enbach happened in this morning and casually 
mentioned that he was going to build up an entire new street 
in the spring as soon as it is cut through. Nancy stood 
listening intently, much impressed by his allusions to his 
numerous possessions and after he had gone, turned to me 
with an incredulous look in her eyes. 

“Mother,” she asked, in an awed whisper, “does Mr. 
Dieff enbach own property in Heaven, too?” 

She is the next hostess for her sewing club I believe and 
asked if she might ask a few extra friends and on gaining 
my permission, wrote the invitations, an example of which 
I igive herewith — it is brief and to the point. Mayhap I may 
live to be the parent of a female barrister. It ran: 

“Dear Dorothy, — 

Am giving a sewing club Sat. Would like much to have 
you come, to, — We vote for a president, be hear at too sharp 
for I espect a big bunch of kids, there will be food, yours 
truly 

NANCY GARRET VAN CLIEF. 

She said she would like, if it isn’t too much trouble, to 
have a candlestick and a “favrite” (favor) at each place. 

I happened to mention last night that I was going to call 
on some new people in town and suggested that the others 
accompany me and Anne literally leaped upon me. 

“Count me out,” she said decidedly, “nothing like that in 
our family and you be careful, yourself, Nancy my child, or 
you’ll be getting as bad as Mrs. Larrabee, the ‘almost guest’; 
the minute a new family arrives Mrs. L. is johnny on the spot 
with her white gloves and pasteboard — ^they move her in 
with the stove; but mark my words, some day she’ll be too 
fore-handed and land there before the furniture.” And she 
spoke truly; I must watch out that I don’t overdo the friendly 
act for I presume even the lonesomest newcomer would like 
to get her breath and put down a rug or two before meeting 
strangers. 

I went into town last week to a bridge luncheon that Mai 
Travers gave for some out-of-town girls and on Monday at 


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A BIT O’ SILENCE 


the Metaphysical Club meeting, before we got down to ser- 
ious “phizzing” I brought up the subject of the clothes worn 
by the girl of the present day and the air was rent with ex- 
clamations of disapproval. 

“It is getting to be a mighty serious question,” said Rosa- 
mond, gravely. “No matter what the season or where you 
go, you are fairly dazzled by the garments of the American 
maids and matrons.” 

Mai was simply dressed in a dainty muslin and was as 
bright and witty and ridiculous as ever. Mrs. Travers never 
having met some of the out-of-town girls, Mai was obliged to 
introduce her and you know how she bates to introduce 
people. 

“Girls,” she said, doing it all up at once, “may I present 
my mother, Mrs. Travers, father’s first wife.” And I declare 
those creatures were bewildered. A little bride from Chicago 
asked me afterwards bow many more wives there were and 
which one the father lived with. But to get back to the 
subject of clothes — my dear, I gazed around the rooms at 
Irish lace robes, flame colored chiffons, magnificent Egyp- 
tian embroideries and picture hats fairly dangling with wil- 
low plumes at $50 per wil, until I couldn’t see. And then 
the rosebuds, the orchids, the jewels and the French heels, 
to say nothing of the limousines and victorias that stood 
three deep outside! I had to leave early to catch my train 
and I bade them a fond farewell. 

“This is no place (for me, girls,” I said, “back to Storm- 
field and the simple life — Au Revoir!” 

“Yes indeed, it’s awful,’* agreed Anne when I had de- 
scribed the scene of splendor, “it’s a calamity, that’s what it 
is and I don’t know what the world is coming to and no 
matter how fine and broad a girl is, she can’t help being a 
tiny bit dissatisfied at the luxury she sees on every hand.” 

They’re overdoing it — that’s all,” said Kate, “as they’re 
overdoing everything else. This is the age of extremes, you 
know, and the great mass of humanity doesn’t seem able to 
distinguish the delicate line between insufficiency and super- 
fluity which is the golden means of temperance and judg- 
ment.” 

“The Earl of Chesterfield wrote a letter to a friend one 
March day in 1746,” began Roberta in her deliberate way, 
“and among other philisophical sentiments was this one: 


[ 156 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


‘Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well.’ Very 
good for Chesterfield but I am sure his idea of doing things 
well wouldn’t coincide in the least with the present day 
interpretation of it, which is overdoing. And yet I heard a 
young woman quote those very words the other day when her 
father reproved her gently for putting too much time, 
thought and money into a gown for a certain occasion — 
really, girls, it’s ghastly and it makes me fearful for the out- 
come; of course, it won’t affect us in any way for we don’t 
care a rap and have minds of our own, praise be!” 

“And even the talk is exaggerated,” put in Elizabeth, “and 
I read the other day that an eminent physician had proved 
that extravagance in speech is most detrimental to the phys- 
ical condition of the speaker as it uses up all the reserve 
force that one ought to have to fall back on in case the need 
for it arises.” 

“Well, speaking of hyperbole effects in ‘langwidge,, ” said 
Rosamond, “I wish you girls might have heard the conver- 
sation between two young things of sixteen or thereabouts 
who sat in front of me on the 4:30 train Saturday. Anyone 
listening would have been convinced that if the treasures of 
the Orient, the seven wonders of the world or the contents of 
all the diamond mines of Africa lay before them they could 
say no more. ‘And her hat, Millicent, what did you think 
of her hat?’ asked one, fairly drooling in her eagerness, ‘did 
you ever in your life behold such a dream?’ ‘Never, Gwen, 
never; positively if I live to be a thousand I never expect 
to see anything half so exquisite again— and that cape ! O, 
Gwennie — that Mandarin cape!’ and her voice was raised to 
a shrill scream at the last word. Gwendolyn emitted a gen- 
tle moan— yes, moan is the word,” laughed Rosamond, “ ‘I 
can’t even speak of it,’ she answered, ‘but, O, Millicent, the 
leading man — wasn’t he the very handsomest thing you ever 
looked at in all your life?’ ‘Hush — ^don’t mention him 
again Gwen, or I shall certainly pass away,’ wailed Millicent, 
‘but he certainly was the most adorable, gorgeous and madly 
fascinating creature that ever walked this earth.’ And they 
were still at it when I got off the train,” concluded Rosamond, 
“To the uninitiated, their conversation might suggest a hur- 
ried flight from a lunatic asylum, but no, they were two 
average American girls returning from the matinee.” 

It does make me ponder long and deeply, Virginia, and 
sometimes I feel that I’d like nothing better than to shout 
from the housetops and bid all stop and listen. In this age 


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of extremes, this day of fad, this era of exaggeration, Td like 
to make a universal plea for moderation and remind every 
one to do all things well at all times but not to lose sight of 
the comfortable fact that there’s a happy medium. 

P. S. I can see Mrs. Archibald Dill wheeling her treasure 
by the house as I write. I have a wild desire to go out and 
remove the thermometer, hot water bottle, four pillows and 
numerous blankets that I know are crowding and roasting 
him. 

August 21. 

There’s a limit to all human endurance and the limit has 
been reached as regards mine. I can’t stand the strain any 
longer even if Rachel can and if something doesn’t happen 
pretty soon to put an end to this uncertainty and suspense, 
why I shall take a hand myself and stir things up a bit. 
There is positively no sense in such performances. I never 
before beheld such will power and strength of purpose as 
exemplified in Rachel Bradley and I hope I never will again 
— it makes me tired in more senses than one. We spent last 
evening at the forest hut playing bridge and Rachel acted so 
weary of the whole thing and doesn’t seem to care whether 
school keeps or not, and yet won’t quite give up as yet. 1 
led from fright most of the evening and Bob Thornton 
doubled three distinct times on perfect Yarboroughs. O, it 
was a pretty party, believe me. I love Rachel dearly but I’m 
tired of witnessing her struggle with herself ; talk about con- 
sistency and reasonableness being admirable qualities — well. 
I’ve reached the point where I’d like to see absolute incon- 
sistency, unreasonableness and senselessness fully expressed 
— ^anything that is human and natural and weak. 

As for Bruce, he seems to be getting to the end of his 
rope, while Gilbertine has certainly lost her heart to him, 
and then, possibly some other girl’s heart is smashed to bits 
because of Bruce’s indifference. To add to the general mix- 
up, two devoted suitors for Gilbertine’s pretty hand have ap- 
peared on the scene — verily, the “tick plottens,” as the funny 
Dutchman says in “The Fascinating Widow.” Bruce is 
such a mixture of seriousness and levity and one never knows 
just how to take him. 

Roberta gave a most delightful all day party on Saturday 
and we had a jolly time. Every member of the colony was 
invited regardless of age but all the youngsters were dis- 
patched to their beds shortly after supper, in the big Lane 


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hayrack and were so thrilled at the prospect of the ride that 
they didn’t realize that they were being sent home. Esther 
and the doctor and Marcia Norrington didn’t come until the 
moon had risen and we had formed a large semi-circle 
around the big bonfire where the men were roasting corn 
and almost dying of heat in the meantime, though the even- 
ing, like most August evenings was cool. 

“O, look who has arrived!” said Len Watson as they 
joined the circle, “and may I ask, as this old Irishman did 
of the race-horse, *what detained you?’” 

“O, Will had to remove several ears and make over a few 
eyes as is usual when we want to go anywhere and I repeat 
for the thousandth time to the unfettered ladies present, 
don’t ever marry even a plain M. D. to say nothing of a 
specialist.” 

“Do repeat that story for us, Lennie,” urged Kate, “we’ve 
all heard it a million times but it is so funny.” 

“I haven’t,” stated Dora; “Nor I,” said Marion Winter, 
so Lennie willingly complied. 

“Why, this old Irishman had been touted to a good thing 
on his first visit to a race track,” explained Len, “and had 
put all his coin on the promising looking two-year-old. The 
colt wheeled as the barrier went up and came struggling 
along in the ruck about the time that the jocks of the money 
horses were weighing out. The crestfallen Irishman walked 
down to the paddock later and going up to the horse, said 
sadly, ‘Sorr, what detained you?” 

We all shrieked as hard as though we never heard it 
before but it is so silly. 

“Coming out on the car from town yesterday there was 
positively the rudest conductor I ever saw,” said Esther, “it’s 
too bad I think that they aren’t more gentlemenly and this 
one has been on the line for ages.” 

“Well, what can you expect?” asked Anne, “the fact that 
a man has been a conductor on a suburban trolley line for 
years demonstrates clearly that he isn’t fitted for a much 
higher position.” 

“That reminds me of what old Mr. Griggs, the livery man 
in Buffalo once told Dad,” I said. “He said that some women 
who had hired a victoria complained that the driver had used 
unseemly language and they were quite incensed. T told 
them,’ said Mr. Griggs, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘that I had 
been trying for years to get college graduates to drive my 
hacks but hadn’t succeeded.” 


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“Bully for Griggsie,” said Bruce. What do they want, 
I wonder — an Emerson?” 

Bruce was actually handsome, leaning back in the white 
moonlight and we all bemoaned the fact that we had large 
and husky husbands and so were out of the running. 

“But Fve picked you for my second, Bruce,” I said, “and 
as soon as I can dispose of Garry to advantage you will find 
me waiting at the church.” 

"Why don’t you raffle Garry off?” suggested Anne, “and if 
you should, give me the first chance at the tickets and I’ll 
buy them all.” 

“No you won’t,” stated Kate firmly, “there are others who 
have been waiting long and patiently for a husband and 
they ought to have the first chance.” 

“But do tell me, Bruce,” I went on, “is there any hope — 
would you take me, just as I am, without one ‘V’? — though, 
of course. I’d have lots of alimony.” 

“Nancy,” began Bruce, “you’re the one and only with the 
possible exception of Anne, Kate, Rosamond, Esther, Sally, 
Marcia, Frances and Roberta, and as for taking you minus 
a dowry — pray let Omar speak for me: 

“A book of verses underneath the bough, 

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou 
Beside me, singing in the wilderness, 

O, wilderness were paradise enow.” 

“Cut out that twaddle, little ones,” interposed Ed Lane, 
(fortunately for our brains) “Roberta says that it is time to 
eat.” 

“What, again?” asked Martin, — “or yet, which is it? — 1 
never saw so many meals crowded into one day before.” 

“I’m stiff as a board,” sighed Rosamond, as we trooped 
into the charming dining room, “you know old Grandpa Far- 
rell has pursued me for weeks intent upon playing the fiddle 
for my delectation and last night I submitted gracefully and 
dragged Bob down to Bertha’s (Bertha Watts, you know, 
Virginia, Sally’s sister, who has moved here recently with 
her family) and we all had to dance for hours while Gramp 
scraped away at the rate of forty miles an hour.” 

“I believe you,” said Dick. “We were roped in once, 
also, after Anne had unwittingly complimented the old man 
on his excellent touch.” 

Apropos of music, it is really remarkable the way my 
small daughter picks out things by ear — she takes to the 


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piano as a duck takes to water, plays the air so prettily and 
complements it with perfectly a good bass, her tiny hands 
scarcely stretching as far as she would like to have them. 

I believe I would write on forever, Virginia, only that I 
see Bruce coming down the street so will lay down my weary 
pen. 

‘ Later. My poor Bruce has just left, a sadder and a 
wiser man, but he’s determined to try his luck, just the 
same. You know, it’s against my principles to interfere in 
other people’s affairs but this seemed the psychological mo- 
ment to strike while the iron was hot and tell him what I 
know. I recounted things verbatim as I know them — the 
wedding ring and the locket with the baby’s picture, on the 
chain around her neck, the inscription in the book, and 
Rachel’s incoherent remarks when she was so ill. I felt 
that it was only fair to Bruce to tell him what I thought and 
I gave Rachel her just due by reminding Bruce that she 
had been supremely indifferent to him all along and had 
not given him one atom of encouragement. 

“I know that perfectly, Nancy,” he acknowledged, “but 
I have a queer feeling about it all and feel as if I must say 
something to her in regard to Gilbert — well, I just can’t talk 
about her to anyone but this feeling that I have for Mrs. 
Bradley seems to dominate every thought — really I wish 
something would happen to clear the atmosphere.” 

I talked a blue streak and finally got all mixed up myself. 
There’s been a perfect series of love affairs to untangle for 
other people in my experience so far and if I’m dragged into 
any more I’ll be qualified to run a woman’s exchange in a 
country town and that requires a greater amount of diplom- 
acy^ than anything I know of. I probably haven’t accom- 
plished one thing by all my talking in this case but like 
the western statesman “I seen my dooty and I done it.” 
Bruce said all he wanted was to end his misery one way or 
the other. I begged him to do nothing rash for a couple of 
weeks at least — I have a presentiment that something may 
develop within that time — there’s hoping! 

By the way, send me a little sprig of your rosemary, will 
you? I need it in my business. 

Sept. 8. 

This paper is so spotted with tears that I can scarcely 
write on it and please don’t laugh at me, but my little boy. 


[ 161 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


my baby child has gone to school! My weeny Philip! My 
heart was almost torn from its moorings last year when 
Nancy began her school life but I came through the ordeal 
bravely because I still had la child at home ito pet and make 
a baby of but now they’re both starting outi and I feel lost 
and strange. I always had it pounded into me that school 
days are one’s happiest days but I can’t see it that way and 
the happiest day of my life was the one on which I received 
my diploma at high school, and by the skin of my teeth, 
at that. I think the whole thing is a long hard pull and, 
poor litle trudgers, they have it all before them. 

I’m glad that your ankle is as good as new once more and 
it probably would have been long ago if you weren’t such a 
ponderous creature; there are compensations in being a 
feather weight, after all. 

I just ishrieked out of the window to a wild looking mon- 
grel to istop tramping down my garden and immediately one 
of Aunt Judith’s oft-repeated reproofs came to my mind — 
do you remember how often she used to say to you and 
Cousin Lois and me when w^e raised our voices to the highest 
pitch — “Children, children, lower your voices — a real lady 
never screams, and remember Shakespeare’s words: 

’Her voice was ever soft. 

Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman.’ ” 

Dear Aunt Judith, would that I had paid more heed to her 
teachings — all of which reminds me that I owe her several 
letters. 

I am in quite a state of nerves just now wondering how^ 
a little plan that I have in my head is going to work out — 
I can’t tell anybody, not even you, so please don’t ask. Garry 
says he smells a rat but I tell him it’s simply the aristocratic 
tilt of his Grecian nose that leads him to think that he knows 
it all on every occasion. 

Dickie Tennant is getting on my nerves, he’s so good- 
looking; he’s here a great deal and I told him the other day 
that there must be some awful defect somewhere that would 
crop out later for it is not in the natural order of things 
for one person to have all the virtues. He alw^ays has some- 
thing funny or interesting to recount and yesterday he sent 
me into hysterics telling me of the march to the bone-yard 
which was halted, perforce. It seems that last Sunday, 
Star, one of the Fenway Farm horses, saw fit to pass on, 
for no other reason than that he was tired of living, and by 


[ 162 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


a strange coincidence ithe Cobb pony drew it’s last breath 
at about the same hour and a man was sent out from town 
the next day to collect the departed beasts. Dick jumped 
on the wagon with it’s pathetic load, as it was going in the 
direction that he w^as 'taking, expecting to get a lift all the 
way to Lawton, his destination. But they had scarcely 
reached the Fair Grounds, about a mile out of town, when 
what did the only live horse in the party do but fall down 
in the road, stone dead. I laughed so hard that Dick lost 
all patience with me and left so I really don’t know what 
they did in their dilemma; Dick didn’t think it wias particu- 
larly funny but I howl and shriek every time I think of it. 

I am waiting on the veranda and a big brown velvet but- 
terfly with gold splashes on his dusky wings just alighted 
on the edge of the hammock and balanced there a ifew sec- 
onds, as light as thistle-down. To me, a butterfly, more 
than anything else on earth, symbolizes hope and fulfillment, 
for the miserable, homely grub means faith, so strong and 
steadfast, apparently, is it’s belief in the ultimate relief from 
temporary bondage and darkness, and sure enough, in due 
time it emerges from it’s dingy prison, the very personifica- 
tion of beauteous freedom. 

Loring has written asking me to be one of the chaperones 
at his fraternity house for Junior week in February. Will 
I go? O, no, I was sixty my last birthday and I’ll stay at 
home and darn stockings, for what care I for the joys of 
Junior w^eek with it’s fraternity teas and luncheons, plaj^s, 
coasting and dancing and pretty girls and dandy men and 
all those entrancing things that take one’s breath away to 
merely think of them. Virginia, dear. I’ll be there on the 
first train and spend the rest of my life making it up to 
Loring for asking me. Garry and the children can stay 
with Grandma Burwell for the five days that I’ll be away. 
Do you think that it is awfully frivolous of me? Tell me 
truly. I have decided to have my cream Brussels lace over 
pale pink liberty satin and have some pale blue chiffon 
waving in the breezes on it somewhere — doesn’t that sound 
lucious — really good enough to eat, I think. I will wear 
it the night of the prom. 

Norah and I have been making grape jelly until we are 
literally blue in the face. I’ve made every known kind this 
year. Garry says w^henever he can’t find anything that he 
is sure it’s been boiled down for jelly and I really don’t won- 
der and sometimes think that women are crazy the way 


[ 163 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


they use up their valuable time, tons of sugar and bushels 
of fruit to make a few paltry glasses of doubtful jelly — not to 
mention the dozens of glasses and packages of parrafine 
that must needs go with it all. 

I ran in town for Ethel’s veranda tea yesterday in spite 
of my resolution to go in no more for such things and I 
had a much better time than I expected. It was most amus- 
ing to hear the opinions that some of the Buffalo people have 
of the Stormfield inhabitants, particularly the “stranded 
nobility.” 

“I understand that the people out in your town are most 
unique and Bohemian,” remarked that stilted Inez Whiting, 
whom I never could endure, “and that they do and say the 
most absurd things.” 

“Well, why don’t you run out in one of your cars some 
day?” I suggested, “and see for yourself — it’s only an hour’s 
ride,” and then I painted a most lurid picture and Ethel 
and Natalie backed me up in my statements. I said that we 
all lived in tents, wore togas and ate with chop-sticks but 
that we breathed real air and while we sometimes ate real 
food, wild berries constituted our principle diet. I told her 
that we had no set morals or religion but stole from each 
other and held open-air meetings on the creek bank and 
worshipped a sun-god. What do you think of some people, 
anyway — are they quite insane or merely foolish in the head ! 

Anyone having a sense of humor as fully developed as 
you have will appreciate to the full the amusing incident 
that was the hit of Rosamond’s party. She has a green 
country girl who adores her but who apes everything she 
does and copies or rather tries to copy all her clothes. Last 
evening we found Rosamond graciously receiving her guests, 
looking absolutely regal in sapphire blue velvet with trim- 
mings of cream point de Venise and touches of wonderful 
Oriental embroidery, the creation being one of the gold 
bricks hurled by the wealthy aunt. All was serene until 
time for .supper and when Rosamond sent up for Lena to 
come down to assist, the lady appeared in blue velvet (een), 
almost the identical shade as Rosamond’s but of unmistak- 
able cheapness, garnitured profusely with white cotton lace 
and a fancy braid, both of which were put on in the very 
manner that rich aunt’s gown was adorned. It was too late 
to say anything and Lena was all dazzling smiles at the effect 
she thought she was producing, while we were all convulsed 
at the sight of the elegant Rosamond in her sapphire gown 

[ 164 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


and point de Venise, being followed about by Lena, like- 
wise in sapphire and point de Stormfield, who dispensed 
plates and napkins in the most self-^satisfied manner imagin- 
able. 

“Well,” announed Bob, when Lena had finally been per- 
suaded that she was no longer needed, “imitation may be 
sincerest flattery but this is overstepping all bounds and if 
Rosamond won’t tell her tomorrow that we think the place 
is too much for her, / will.” 

“I should say rather that she was too much for the place,” 
amended Rosamond, “and you needn’t fear that I will hesi- 
tate to tell her so — I’ll break it gently e’re the clock strikes 
noon.” 

Nancy has just come in from school and is already at 
the piano, her selection being “My Hero” from the “The 
Chocolate Soldier,” and I want to waltz this minute. 

September 15. 

It is a soft warm evening, gray and misty after the day’s 
rain. The children are sleeping sweetly in their cribs and 
Garry seems to have followed their example in his big chair, 
Mliss Barrymore curled in a black fur heap upon his knees. 

Patty, Gilbertine and I went to Rachel’s in the rain this 
afternoon but the girls couldn’t stay long. 

“Parent has invited a large number of suffragettes, to- 
gether with their husbandettes, out for supper tonight,” ex- 
plained Miss Tennant, “so it is up to little Patty to go home 
now and make several gallons of salad dressing, and Gil- 
bertine, you have simply igot to help me — of course, there’s 
no oil in the house to make it with, but never mind, we will 
probably stop at your house. Nan, and take all the olive 
oil and also anything else that looks appetizing — ^come along, 
my Mandy!” she ordered, dragging Gilbertine from her com- 
fortable place on the divan and out they went. 

“Life is such a big proposition,” mused Rachel, as we 
sat in front of her cheery fire, “that I continually wonder 
why there is so much of petty routine in it — no matter what 
big, vital thing comes along, there are three meals to get, 
beds to make, dishes to be washed and a thousand other 
things of seeming unimportance, and yet they fill our time.” 

“That’s just it,” I said eagerly. “Life is so amazing and 
so wonderful and so unintelligible to us poor, groping pig- 
mies, that these everyday duties are given to us to keep 
us sane and human, else we would be overcome by the vast- 


[ 165 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


ness of it all. They are the balance weights — the necessary 
leaven in the daily bread of our existence.” 

“Maybe so,” assented Rachel, leaning back and gazing 
into the fire, and I couldn’t help noticing that she kept her 
hand on the locket which showed faintly through her thin 
blouse. 

“Nancy, dear,” she said suddenly, and sitting up very 
straight, “did you ever feel absolutely down and out and 
as though there was no use trying any longer? No, prob- 
ably not,” she answered for me, “with your well ordered 
existence and surrounded by those who love you, but that 
is the way I feel now^ and I’m almost tempted to give right 
up and just turn my face to the wall and die.” 

“O, no, Rachel dear, not after the good fight you’ve 
made,” I cried hastily, determined that she should hold 
out just a little longer, “remember that it’s always darkest 
before the dawn,” and I squeezed her hand tightly. 

“You’re such a comfort, Nancy,” she said bravely, “and 
you have helped me so much — really I don’t know what I’d 
do without you — ^you and my favorite prayer.” 

“What is it dear?” I asked and Rachel, her face illumined 
with a beautiful light and her dark eyes shining, repeated 
softly Stopford Brooks’ exquisite words; “Help us to faith- 
ful always to that which we believe to be true; to be faithful 
to our principles and our conscience when trial comes; to 
be faithful to our given word; to keep our promises to men 
when we might win favor by breaking them; to cling to in- 
tellectual as well as to moral truth; to so live among men 
that they may always know where we stand and to fly our 
flag in the storm as well as in the calm.” 

Dusk w as falling as she said the last word and she leaned 
back in her chair and closed her eyes. She seemed to have 
sunk into a kind of calm lethargy, and to be in a quiet, 
peaceful mood, 

“That blessed mood. 

In which the burden of the mystery. 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world 
Is lightened.” 

No sound disturbed the perfect stillness but the soft rain 
dropping from the trees outside and Copper’s regular breath- 
ing, from his position at his mistress’ feet. I was fascinated 


[ 166 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


by a picture in the fire and when I raised my head a few 
moments later I discovered that Rachel had fallen into a 
deep slumber, so kissing her gently on the forehead, I stole 
softly out of the door and homeward through the dripping 
woods. 


September 20. 

Before you begin to really read this, Virginia, calm your- 
self and be prepared to laugh and weep both at once, for 
I’m going to recount to you a most adorable version of “the 
sweetest story ever told.” I’m so glad that I have to write 
it instead of tell it to you face to face for you would interrupt 
every minute and I would never be able to record things as 
they really happened. I am so happy that I scarcely know 
how to tell it, anyway, and I shall probably spell half the 
words wrong for I have just returned from Lotus Cottage 
where I left it’s mistress weeping tears of joy on her hus~ 
band^s broad shoulders. “Honest and truly, cross your 
heart?” you’re asking — ^yes, honest and truly, cross my heart, 
it’s gospel. I went up there this afternoon, hoping against 
hope to break down Rachel’s fortitude and power of will 
and I succeeded. I began by talking of the foolishness of 
clinging to an idea and of the idiocy of self-sacrifice, then 
spoke of dear, tender husbands and soft, clinging baby arms 
and finally commented on the pitiful shortness of life and 
the folly of wasting even one tiny portion of it, until Rachel 
put her head in my lap, burst into a perfect torrent of tears 
and told me the whole story. As is so often the case and 
as I had divined in this one, the long, lonely months, the 
heart-break and the whole tragic separation were the result 
of a misunderstanding caused by lying and slanderous 
tongues and brought to this awful pass by Phil’s apparent 
lack of humor and Rachel’s fiery temper. 

“You see, Nancy,” Rachel went on, in a shaking voice, 
after she had outlined the story, “the thing in itself was 
nothing — merely a silly lark about changing clothes and per- 
sonalities but when some one told Phil that I had been seen 
going into Jack’s room, he believed it — ^believed it, Nancy, 
and accused me of it — think of that — accused me, and he 
raged and stamped and threatened to kill Jack and take 
his own life, and oh, what hard words he used.” 

“That was jealousy, dear,” I said, “and there is no real 
love that has not a large element of jealousy in it — it is one 
of the primal forces of love and really the root of the whole 

[ 167 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


thing; and it’s cruel, too, Rachel, cruel as the grave, and 
relentless.” 

“It may have had something to do with it,” she half 
assented, gazing at me, thoughtfully, her eyes deepest purple 
and w^et with half-shed tears. Then she resumed her nar- 
rative. 

“Finally he said he would give me a chance to clear my- 
self but, of course, I wouldn’t take it — I felt insulted at the 
mere suggestion and then I made matters worse by saying 
some terribly cruel and bitter things to which Philip replied 
cuttingly and so sarcastically and then, O! Nancy — then I 
struck him full in the face — my husband and as long as I 
live I can never forget the look in his eyes when I did it.” 
Her breath was coming in quick gasps now and her face 
was white as death. “Then I dashed out Oif the house,” 
she went on, “and walked for hours and hours and while 
I was speeding through the still night, trying to imagine 
how I was ever going to live again, that little Scotch stanza 
that you may have noticed on the wall in my room, came 
to my mind and seemed to be the solution to the problem : 

^When the song^s gone out o^ your life, 
you can^t start another while ifs a’ 
ringin’ in your ears; ’tis best to have 
a bit o’ silence, and out o’ that, maybe, 
a psalm will come bye and bye.’ 

‘Yes,’ I thought ‘it is the only thing to do — I’ll have the 
“bit o’ silence” — I’ll go away alone and stay away until I 
feel sure of myself and until I can forget or at least try to 
forget Phil’s cruel words and all the awful horror of the 
whole thing.’ When I returned he was standing just where 
I had left him and without giving him a chance to speak I 
told him what I had decided — ^that the only possible course 
was for us to separate — ^to live apart until we had each come 
to a realization of it all and could ask the other’s forgive- 
ness. I told him that I would take Gerald to Aunt Lucia’s 
and leave him there while we were apart, if it was forever — ” 
her hands were clutched tightly and two bright spots glow- 
ed in her cheeks as she stopped for breath. 

“But why,” I asked, taking advantage of the pause, 
“couldn’t you have given yourself the joy and comfort of 
your baby’s companionship through your trial?” 


[ 168 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“O, beoauise that wouldn’t have been fair to Phil you 
know — why should I have had that solace any more than 
he? That precious child means as much to Phil as to me — 
almost/* she added, bursting into tears again. My heart was 
beating wildly but I knew that words were useless now. 

“No, Nancy, there was but one thing to do— to each go 
away alone and fight it out and pray for love to come back 
to us, for of course we didn’t love each other in the fullest 
sense if we could do and say what we did. O, Nancy, the 
shame of it — ^the baseness of it all!” After a long pause 
she resumed once more : 

“Philip never spoke except to acquiesce to all that I said 
and I made him promise not to try to find me nor to come 
until I sent for him myself. I spent the whole night pack- 
ing and Philip shut himself in the library, and I could hear 
him walking back and forth, back and forth, until dawn 
when he came up and put some things in two suit cases and 
after a few words with Melia and a half hour standing by 
Gerald’s crib, left the house. 

“Melia announced that she was coming with me, which 
surprised me greatly, for she had always had such an ad- 
miration for Philip and had been with his mother for years. 
We took Gerald to Aunt Lucia’s in Chicago and I nearly died 
when I left him. Then we came farther east with Copper 
and my piano and a few of my favorite books and things and 
when we reached Buffalo I was so ill that I had to go to a 
hospital for a few weeks. MeHa watched over me day and 
night and one lovely Indian summer day in November (it 
was early in October that we parted) when I was almost 
well again, we came out here for the trolley ride and wander- 
ed about in the woods until I saw this place which looked 
like a veritable haven of rest to my weary mind and body. 
I learned that Mr. Dieffenhach would rent it, although he 
thought I was crazy, and we were out here within two weeks. 
When I left home my plans were vague, but I expected to 
have to work when my money (a few hundred dollars) gave 
out, but Aunt Lucia told me when I was in Chicago that 
day that old Uncle James’ will had been found and that I 
would get a check every month. She promised to let me 
know if my baby was sick and that was all, for she knew 
better than to waste time and words trying to divert me 
from my purpose. It is nearly two years, Nancy — two long 
centuries, and my precious baby is almost four years old, 
and the little house in Santa Barbara where we were so 


[ 169 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


happy is silent and shut. With all my determination how- 
ever, I see now that I never could have lived through it if 
it hadn’t been for you, Nancy, and Garry and Anne and all 
the other dear people, for you have kept me alive in very 
truth. I’ve had my ‘bit of silence’ and it’s taught me much — 
I’ve learned to conquer my awful temper and my stubborn 
pride and through the agony of lonliness, the longings and 
the heartaches and the terrible pangs of envy when I saw 
you all fairly steeped in the devotion of your husbands and 
your children, I’ve learned that to live and to love are one.” 

“But you really did not have your ‘bit o’ silence’ after 
all” I cried, “O Rachel, how selfish we have been!” 

“O, yes I did, indeed I did, I have had too much” she 
said, “and don’t say that you have been selfish, please — 
rather you have all given me a new desire to live.” 

“O, Nancy,” she went on, I said that I hated him and 
that I would never forgive him and I thought I meant it, 
but now I speak the truth when I say that I would willingly 
crawl on my hands and knees over rocks and stones to see 
his dear face and touch his dear hands just once.” 

Even as she said the words, a sliadow appeared in the 
doorway and the next instant a man — the man — her man 
was in the room, had her limp form in his arms and was 
weeping tears of joy on her lovely head. I was about to 
dash the contents of a milk pitcher over her when she open- 
ed her eyes and I slipped in a corner, feeling very much like 
a gooseberry. 

“Philip,” she said, when she could speak, “can you for- 
give me? I love you more than life itself and I have learned 
its hardest lesson.” 

“Hush, dear heart,” said man, in the most marvelously 
luscious voice, “it is I who must beg forgiveness and as for 
loving you, — O, Rachel! — ” Here Rachel put her slender 
hand over his mouth and in her tenderest tones said: “Let 
us never speak Of it again, my dearest, from now on we will 
live — ^just live, and O, how wonderful that will be!” Then 
she turned and looked in my direction as though she had 
just remembered my existence but before she could utter a 
word I had flown. I am so excited that I cannot even think 
connectedly and want to hug everybody in sight — here comes 
the ice-man — guess I’ll start on him. I now have the ex- 
treme pleasure of breaking the news to Bruce — ^thank good- 
ness I headed him off. 


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Rachel at Seventeen '"—Page 171 


W\’- 






A BIT O’ SILENCE 


On looking this over I have decided to send it by express, 
collect, for I never could pay the postage. 

P. S. Melia is here with the baby Gerald and I’ve per- 
suaded her to keep him here until tomorrow; I don’t want 
anyone, not even their own child, to disturb their wonderful 
happiness and this is Philip’s day — alone. 

N, B. A little bird tells me that some one, with Melia’s 
assistance, gave Phil the tip — three guesses who it was. 

September 21. 

Just a line before dinner to tell you that all is well. Melia 
and I took the weeny boy up to the cottage this morning 
and I stayed just long enough to see Rachel clasp her baby 
in her arms and weep out all her pent-^up motherhood upon 
his cunning Dutch cropped head. Aunt Lucia had evidently 
seen to it that he didn’t forget his mother but most of his 
attention was given to a large gray elephant from which he 
is never parted. 

He was so precious last night, and good as gold and al- 
though he seemed to enjoy the Van Clief assortment of books 
and toys, he kept his elephant close at hand. ‘You’re to sleep 
here Darling’ I said, indicating Philip’s brass crib. “Is there 
room for my ‘effulent’?” he asked, measuring it carefully 
with his eye, “cause Jimsey always sleeps wif me, you know.’’ 

I know you will scold me soundly for not telling you of 
my plan but I was so afraid that it might fall through that 
I said nothing, even to Garry, and then I’m rather leery of 
the written word, anyway, for letters do go astray. Why, 
my dear, Melia told me that Philip has been on a Texas 
ranch every minute of the time and not a week has passed 
but what she has heard from him and written him of Rachel, 
through the medium of her sister’s letters; also that “Uncle 
James’ ” checks came indirectly from Philip, who had reach- 
ed Aunt Lucia’s several hours before Rachel and made his 
plans. He also made Melia promise not to leave Rachel for 
a day and to take good care of her every minute. Philip 
is wonderful — tall and dark, and his mouth is a close second 
to Garry’s. He showed me an adorable picture of Rachel 
at 17 — when he met her, that he always carries in his pocket. 
I am so glad that he was man enough to break his promise 
when it was for the love of the one woman. I never could 
comprehend the kind of love that put honor and duty and 
the given word before it — ^the kind that places the possession 
of the one beloved creature before all other things and per- 


[ 171 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


sons, duty or reason, is the only kind I understand or want. 

But you see, Virginia, things had reached such a pass 
that something had to be done and although I wasn’t at all 
sure that I could accomplish my purpose, I took Lady Mac- 
beth’s advice, and did not fail. I simply made Melia give 
me Philip’s address, by assuring her that Rachel’s courage 
was dwindling fast and then I wrote to him that the time 
was ripe for his return and that Rachel’s heart was break- 
ing but that she would never give up, I feared, if she died 
holding to her resolve, and I implored him to put all his 
pride aside, get little Gerald, and come to her. I gave him 
minute directions and told him to arrange to get here this 
particular Saturday afternoon and Melia would meet him 
at the train and take the baby to our house. And it all 
worked out so beautifully! O, Virginia, what if it hadn’t? 
But there I go again — it was meant to work out right, and 
so it did, of course. Rachel probably will never know and 
if she does she will thank me and truly I had to do it for it 
was a direct inspiration from Heaven and could not be turn- 
ed aside. While I was there this morning I substituted the 
sprig of rosemary that you sent me, for the lotus blossom. 
Comprendez-vouz ? 

October 2. 

A perfect morning, Virginia, soft and mild and bright; 
the trees look like liveried sentinels in their scarlet and gold 
and the October sky is a vast blue dome stretching into in- 
terminable space above them. 

Rachel, Philip and the darling baby child left yesterday 
for their home, Melia having gone on last week, with Copper, 
to get it ready. We all went down to the station to see them 
off and everybody wept over everybody else, while we nearly 
squeezed Rachel to pieces, wrung Philip’s hand into a dis- 
location and fairly devoured the weeny one; he’s the perfect 
image of Rachel and as cunning as a healthy, four-year old 
boy naturally would be. Anne’s parting gift was an exquisite 
basket of delicious fruit while Dick presented Rachel with 
four of the latest novels and Gilbertine brought a large box 
of her wonderful candy. The rest of us loaded her down 
with flowers, Stormfield’s greenhouses having been stripped 
fqr the occasion. 

“If it w^eren’t for the presence of the youngster we might 
hurl rice and old shoes,’’ suggested Burce, “and give them a 
decent send off, but as ’tis ’taint’ ’’. 


[ 172 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


“Hardly,” said Rosamond, “unless we conceal the child 
and send him by express on a later train. Really, girls,” 
she added, “it’s a crime to let that adorable Philip go from 
our midst — ^couldn’t we contrive to keep him here somehow? 
Rachel, darling, can’t we induce you to stay here — we might 
be able to part from you but it seems well nigh impossible 
to let husband depart in peace.” 

Rachel glanced at her Philip with a radiant smile, and 
then looked back at us : “O, I wish that we might stay,” she 
said eagerly, “but Phil has to return to the ranch for a 
short time and then we must get back to our own home 
and I’m afraid that I couldn’t spare him for a day — not even 
to you dear creatures.” And again her eyes unconsciously 
sought her husband’s fine, strong face, and rested there. 
They have arranged to buy the cottage and are going to try 
to spend a part of every year in the dear hut in the forest, 
but together, always, forever, after this. 

Rachel gave me the keys and has asked me to go up and 
see that all is in condition for the winter, if it isn’t too much 
trouble. As if anything that one could do for Rachel would 
be trouble. Just before the train pulled in, Rachel came to 
me and drew me close to her. 

“Dear,” she whispered, in her low, sweet, velvety voice, 
“I won’t even try to thank you for all your wonderful kind- 
ness to me, nor will 1 attempt to tell you how happy I am, 
but I want you to know that 1 feel that I owe it all to you, 
for without your love and encouragement I never would have 
lived to experience this perfect joy.” And she squeezed my 
hand in a manner that spoke volumes. Here she was set 
upon by the rest of the colony who were lined up waiting 
for their turn and then Philip came up and took my hand 
in both of his. 

“Nancy,” he said, “if we ever have a daughter we will 
name her after you and a greater appreciation of what you 
have done for me I could not show, for we once had a mule 
named Nancy and she kicked me over the pasture fence and 
I’ve always hated the name since. But, seriously,” he added, 
“you’re a trump and if there were words to tell you how 
grateful I am to you for bringing us together, I would say 
them, but as there are not, I will merely say God bless you, 
dear, and yours, always and everywhere.” 

“Hush,” I said, “I’m a little interfering busybody and I 
don’t deserve a word of praise — fit just all did itself’ ” — ^but 
my heart was bursting with thankfulness and my looks be- 


[ 173 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


lied my words, I knew. The whistle blew, the train began 
to move slowly and they were gone. But not out of our 
lives, however, for Rachel is not one of the “ships that pass 
in the night,” but a staunch and sturdy craft of friendship 
that, with a cargo of love and bravery, has anchored her- 
self forever in the harbor of our hearts. 

The children have just come in from Sunday school and 
Norah is calling us to dinner after which we are going to 
w^alk up to the cottage which is not Lotus any more but 
Rosemary, for remembrance. 

Evening . — Rachel might have expressed her appreciation 
of all that we did (which was nothing) in a thousand dif- 
ferent ways, I suppose, but certainly she could not have 
done so in a more substantial way. I’m sure. We went up 
to the cottage to see that it was all right and tied to the 
leg of the beautiful piano was a card bearing these words; 
“To Nancy Vanclief, 2d, from Rachel, who loves her.” I 
sat right down and cried for joy while Nancy danced up and 
down in her delight. “My own perana,” she kept saying, 
“my own perana, my very own.” 

“Well, that is a gift, indeed,” I said to Garry as we gazed 
at the beautiful thing, for Rachel’s piano was a part of her 
very self, Virginia, the joy of her soul. 

On the way home Garry broke the news gently that he 
has landed that position in Kansas City that he has been 
wanting for so long and he is so pleased about it. I dis- 
covered tears trickling down my cheeks and Garry stopped 
in amazement. “But just think what it means to me, finan- 
cially and every other way!” “Yes, but think what it means 
to me,” I said, “leaving Stormfield and all these dear people — 
what will I ever do without them?” He remarked that I was 
not very complimentary to my husband and has promised 
that we can spend our summers here. I was ashamed of my 
tears, for of course I’d gladly go to the Sandwich Islands this 
minute with Garry if he had to go. I’ve never had any pa- 
tience with the sort of girl who makes life miserable for her 
husband when he is obliged to take her away from her home 
town and her mother. I think the most beautiful part of 
the most beautiful marriage service is where it says: “And 
forsaking all others, cleave thee only unto him, as long as 
ye both shall live.” And I’ll cleave to Garry as long as I 
live and thank the kind Lord for giving me such a husband 
to cleave to. Rachel isn’t here now, of course, but it will be 
hard to leave the others. Anne, with her great big heart and 

[ 174 ] 


A BIT O’ SILENCE 


wonderful personality, Rosamond, with her breeziness, Kate 
with her courage and her cleverness, Esther, with her wit 
and steadfastness, Roberta, with her charm and culture, Dora, 
with her common sense and her babies, dear Gilbertine 
and Patty and the dear “old residents,” all the nice men and 
the precious children and the cats and the dogs and Anne’s 
poll-parrot and the lovely trees and the Concord Hills and — 
O, everything that I love about the place. 

We will give a large fare-well party and give them all a 
standing invitation to visit us on every possible occasion. I 
am more than grateful for the^gift of these months in their 
midst and will always think of them with love and tender- 
ness and hope unceasingly, “May the Lord bless them and 
keep them; the Lord make His face to shine upon them; the 
Lord lift up his countenance upon them and give them 
peace.” 

Large N. B. As I live and breathe, Bruce is passing the 
house this minute with Gilbertine. O, joy! O, rap-ture! 
Bully for you Bruce ! Good Luck ! 

THE END. 


[ 175 ] 
























































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